Sessions
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Insight comes at the most unlikely junctures.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Rated: PG

Author's Notes: It's the return of Dr. Westerfield, psychiatrist and commentator from 'All Things Change But Truth'; if you haven't read that story, then none of what follows will make any sense.

Thanks, as usual, Cheri, for moral support and punctuation. And thanks to both of you, Cheri and Judy, for loaning me Westerfield for a solo outing.

This is the first thing I've released in parts. I'm assuming, at this point, that I can probably finish what I start.

**Sessions**

"_Are you sure you don't need a psychiatrist? _

_I have a regular three-thirty slot open on Thursdays_."

Dr. Westerfield--ATCBT, Chapter 13

Phillip Westerfield had made a little wager with himself, as he stepped out of the elevator and into the hospital lobby that afternoon. He'd just come from Mark McCormick's hospital room, and had then, on the way out, encountered Milton Hardcastle getting off the elevator upstairs. He'd extended them each the same invitation, and both had turned him down.

He was pretty sure that the younger man would bite first, and he gave him, at the outside, two weeks.

Hardcastle he wasn't so sure of. At least Mark, despite all his protestations about psychiatry, appeared to have a notion that talking about things might help. For the judge, it seemed to require a much greater crisis of faith before he would even consider opening up.

And now that the crisis was past, who knew how much longer it would be before he felt the need to confide in anyone again?

00000

Ten days later, walking into his office, his receptionist handed him a note. "One of your patients, ah, Mr. Hardcastle. He's not on the regular schedule." She nodded at the slip of paper. "He called."

"Oh?" He took the slip, studied the number, "It was just an initial consultation." Westerfield frowned. He'd already turned over all of his notes to the authorities, not the session with Hardcastle, of course, but all of Dr. Henry's research and his own conclusions about the drug that had temporarily crippled Hardcastle's memory. "Did he say what it was about?"

"No, he said it wasn't an emergency, and that he'd call back. I took his number off of his file."

Westerfield nodded once—message received. Hardcastle had something to talk about, but didn't want him to call. It was just further evidence that there really was no second-guessing when it came to the human mind.

He fielded the second call from the judge, himself, a few hours later that afternoon. The man sounded relaxed enough, and the request was prefaced by an apology for not having called sooner to thank him for everything he'd done. Westerfield accepted it all at face value, at least over the phone, and then said 'yes' to an invitation to lunch the following Tuesday.

00000

The man who was waiting for him in his reception area at noon sharp on Tuesday, was considerably different that the one he'd met almost three weeks earlier. For one thing, he was smiling, and now that the worst of his worries were apparently dealt with, his demeanor was gruffly charming.

"Saw a place down the street that looked pretty promising, Doc."

"Eduardo's?"

"Yeah, Italian okay with you? I figured you wouldn't want to go too far."

"Well, yes, I have a one o'clock. And Italian is fine."

His host shepherded him out the door with a wave and a nod at the receptionist, sweeping him up in warm but idle chatter all the way down the elevator, and to the restaurant—the weather, the Lakers' prospects, even current affairs abutting on the practice of psychiatry. Westerfield had begun to think that if this was going to be anything but a pleasant lunch with a very experienced raconteur, he would have to take the reins and steer the conversation a little.

"How's Mark?" he asked casually during the brief lull in the conversation as they'd been handed the menus.

"He's fine," Hardcastle replied, looking up. There'd been a momentary twitch before he'd answered, but his tone was still honest and open. "He's back in school."

Westerfield caught the fleeting hint of a smile, as if this fact was a matter of great personal satisfaction for the judge. The general impression was that Mark was not the problem, but, the psychiatrist reasoned from experience, impressions could be deceiving.

"Yeah, he's doing pretty good." Hardcastle's smile had become an open grin. "Wally Gularis even sent him a 'get-well' card. I told him to save that one for his scrapbook. Wally's a guy who gives the expression 'going to the dogs' a whole new meaning."

Westerfield's eyebrows went up just a notch in question.

"Oh," the other man's smile had gone sober, "he uses a pack of Dobermans in his loan repayment incentive program." There was a slight shake of the head; the smile was entirely gone. "Had to sleep with the devil on this one, but," he brightened a little, "I hear the IRS is taking a renewed interest in him; someone in the Security and Exchange Commission noticed something in the Schedule A papers of the Symnetech filing, section twenty-six. The financial discrepancies had Gularis' name written all over them."

The judge's face had taken on a slight shadow of guilt at the mobster's impending misfortune. Then he shook his head once, as if he was shaking off a thought.

"And, anyway," he returned back to the original subject, "I never really thanked you for what you did for Mark, either," Hardcastle went on, a little more slowly, with just a slight hesitance, as if he wasn't exactly sure what Westerfield _had_ done. "You were, ah, _there_ for him." He paused again and, getting not much more than a smile from the psychiatrist, seemed to edge forward into the next bit warily. "I didn't know if you had talked to him, I mean, since the hospital."

"No, he hasn't called," Westerfield replied, simply.

Hardcastle nodded, looking a bit more deep in thought. "No," he finally said. "I didn't think so."

"But you said he's fine," the doctor added.

"Oh . . . ah, yeah," the judge hesitated again, then plunged into it, "He wanted to quit—law school, I mean. He offered to do that."

"Why?" Westerfield kept his tone light, merely inquiring.

"So he'd be around. So he can keep me out of trouble, I think." Hardcastle gave him a sharp glance. "You know what we do, right?" he asked, as if he was hoping he wouldn't have to explain it. "McCormick says he's Tonto."

"Well, he didn't tell me that." Westerfield smiled. "But Lieutenant Harper told me some things, when he was picking up Henry's papers. Said criminal justice was a hobby for you."

"Damn expensive one, too," the judge muttered, and from something in his expression, Westerfield was sure he wasn't talking about mere financial costs. "I think maybe it's time to retire." The judge had let out a long sigh with this last statement. He lifted his eyes slowly. "Anyway, I promised him I would stay out of trouble. That was the deal. If he would go back to school, I mean."

Westerfield kept his face even. "You can do that?" he asked. "Stay out of trouble?"

"I . . . think so." Hardcastle frowned. "Been a while since I tried."

There was another pause. The waiter returned and took their order. When he'd departed, the judge settled back in his seat, looking a little pensive. Then he started up again, as if there'd been no break in the conversation, at least no break in his thoughts.

"It might be a while, though, before he trusts me." He cocked his head, as if he thought Westerfield might have some information about this.

The psychiatrist merely shrugged. "Trust tends to be based on past experience." Westerfield gave the other man a long, considering look, "Overall, I'd say his faith in you is still intact."

Hardcastle quirked a smile. "Possibly unfounded, but hard to shake." Still, he looked relieved to have heard Westerfield say as much. The smile faded. "He might need someone to talk to, I think."

"Someone besides you?"

The older man grinned, "Someone to talk to _about_ me."

Westerfield kept his surprise off his face. Insight could come at the most unlikely junctures sometimes.

"I mean, look at this. He's talking about giving up law school because of me." Hardcastle sighed heavily. "And why the heck is he doing it in the first place, if not for me." He stopped, frowning down at the table, then lifted his head again. "I _think_ he likes it. He's good at it. I think he wants to do it. But I'm not even sure if I can tell anymore."

Westerfield smiled gently. "Where one person's needs leave off, and another's begins? Sometimes they run in parallel, you know."

The waiter returned bearing salads. Both men turned their attention to the food. It was a moment before Westerfield continued on, feeling surprisingly hesitant.

"And what if he told me he didn't want to be a lawyer? What if he said he wanted to fix cars for a living?"

"As long as he doesn't want to _steal_ 'em, it'll be okay with me." Hardcastle grinned over a forkful of salad. Then a more sober smile, "I just hope he understands that."

"Well," Westerfield said, "maybe you should tell him yourself."

"Dunno," Hardcastle replied, after a moment's pause. Then he cocked a smile. "Maybe I'm afraid he'll believe me." The smile had gone rueful. "Damn, Doc, but he'd make a fine lawyer." He shook his head once, "Not that he wouldn't make a good auto mechanic.

"And, anyway, I'd like to think he had someone to talk to, just in case."

"He was pretty adamant about not needing a psychiatrist," Westerfield pointed out.

"Oh, that," Hardcastle smiled. "Yeah. But he _likes_ you . . . might be kinda hard to get him in the office, though. And," there was a moment of nervous hesitance, "he might not think he could _afford_ you."

"Well, I don't see as either of those things would be much of a problem. I like hot dogs for lunch once in a while, and I do some . . . what do you call it?--'_Pro bono_' work myself."

Hardcastle knitted his brow for a moment. "But I'd pay for it; that's not an issue."

Westerfield smiled and shook his head slightly. "No, might not be such a good idea. I wouldn't want it to look like there was a conflict of interest."

"Yeah, well, I can understand that." He still seemed a little unhappy. "But it's not like he'd have to _know_."

Westerfield's expression was mildly disapproving. "If you're worried about having too much control over his life, this might be a good point to give in on."

"Oh." This was followed by a long silence. "Yeah . . ." It looked like it was taking him a minute to get used to the idea. "Okay. I get it," he finally sighed.

The waiter returned, removing the salad plates and putting down their main courses. Both men turned their attention to the food and the conversation drifted that way as well. It was only after they were sitting back, contentedly full, that Westerfield gazed curiously at the other man.

"You know," he began, "I'd let you pay for your _own_ sessions."

"Me?" Hardcastle replied, with some surprise. "I don't need a psychiatrist."

Westerfield's brief laugh produced a look of puzzled chagrin from the other man.

"Well," the judge grudgingly admitted, "you didn't see me at my best last month, but I'm okay _now_."

"All right," Westerfield took a sip of water and swallowed his smile along with it, "forget I mentioned it." The smile came back, unbidden. "Just remember, if either of you need me, I'm here."

00000

The Lakers occupied them again through the canolis. Then Westerfield checked his watch as he said, "I've got that one o'clock," and they were both rising.

"Thank you again, for _everything_," Hardcastle said, in a tone that covered all debts, past and future.

00000

Westerfield returned to his office at five minutes to the hour. As he greeted his receptionist, she handed him a note.

"A call from a Mr. McCormick."

He took the piece of paper, with no small satisfaction in cinching at least one of his small internal wagers—it was still one day short of two weeks.

The receptionist frowned, "The name isn't in the files, but it sounded familiar."

"Oh, not a patient, more like a friend," Westerfield said with a smile. "Probably just wants to get together for lunch."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: These are not my characters, and I make no profit from them.

Sessions—Part 2

Thursday, lunch with Mark was all-you-can-eat Mongolian barbeque, at a place that was close to campus. It was a step up from hotdogs, Westerfield decided, but still aimed at the limited budget—and unlimited appetite—of the average student.

McCormick seemed to know his way around the fixings, and instructed him in the art of fitting as much into the bowl as possible. "It cooks down," he'd said casually, when Westerfield had eyed the nine inch high mound he'd created for himself. "How hot do you want the sauces?"

"Nope," Westerfield shook his head, "if I start giving my patients dyspeptic looks this afternoon, I may trigger a rash of relapses."

This got him a quick laugh. "Okay, teriyaki and straight-up peanut oil, then." He pointed to the right items. "Just as long as you don't mind looking like a wimp."

"I'll deal with it," Westerfield smiled, as the content of their bowls were transferred to the grill and returned, as predicted, in a decently compacted form.

Mark forged a path to one of the quieter corners, where he'd spotted an empty table. Westerfield saw him pull up momentarily, and cover a wince, after an accidental collision with a departing man who looked like linebacker material. But that, and the fading bruises on his face, were the only trace indicators that two and a half weeks ago he'd been close enough to death to spit on its shoes.

Overall, the psychiatrist thought, he'd have to say the man looked happy, an astonishing difference from his mood a month earlier, or even when he'd talked to him briefly in the hospital.

"You're looking pretty good," Westerfield commented, as he edged into the corner seat.

"Well, it would have been hard to look worse," Mark replied with an expression of mild chagrin. "When I started back on Monday, I told 'em all it was a skiing accident. That, at least, has some panache."

"Beaten up by crazy political extremists wouldn't cut it, eh?"

"Not hardly, too much explaining to go with that one." McCormick grimaced. "I'm just really glad I'm past the point in the educational process where you have to write papers saying what you did on your vacation." He shook his head. "I'd have some real doozies."

Westerfield gave that an absent nod and pulled his tray over as he sat down.

"And everything's back to normal on the home front?" he asked, in a tone that would have been casual, from anyone but a psychiatrist.

Mark's face went a little blank, as though he'd intended to answer a simple 'yes' as a mere social ritual. Then there was a glimpse of deeper emotion, as if he was remembering something and trying to decide just how truthful to be.

"Now, yes," he flashed a quick, almost pained smile, and then added, "normal being a relative term with us." There was one of those long pauses, left to itself by the older man.

McCormick finally went on, "It was a little rough there at first, that afternoon after I talked to you."

Westerfield raised an eyebrow, by way of encouragement.

"I ," Mark swallowed on the one word, looked down, looked up again, and put a little more determination behind the word. "I can't believe I did it. I must've been a lot angrier than I thought."

"Did what?"

"Oh," the younger man shook his head in disbelieving wonderment, "I dragged him to the cemetery, Woodlawn, where his wife and son are buried."

"Lieutenant Harper mentioned that to me," Westerfield said calmly, "He dropped by to pick up the notebooks late that afternoon."

"He did, did he?" Mark said with some chagrin. "Well, okay, I probably scared the shit out of him, too. Must've thought for a moment there, that he'd be hauling me back to the hospital and Hardcastle to the lock-up." He shook his head slowly; there was a ghost of a worried smile.

"Yes, he said something to that effect."

"But it wasn't like that at all," Mark frowned. "I think we . . . we sorted some things out."

Westerfield nodded once. "That sounds good, then."

"Maybe," the man's frown had deepened. "It's just that, there's things we don't talk about, you know?"

"So I gathered," Westerfield replied dryly.

"There's things _I_ don't talk about," Mark added, with a little more emphasis.

"And you're worried," Westerfield asked, "that this is some sort of quid pro quo thing?"

He got a nod in return.

"Would you use anything he said to gain an advantage over him?"

"No. Of course not."

"Do you think he would do that to you?"

"No," this came as quickly as the first, and then, a little more slowly, "but he might . . ."

"Not understand?"

Another nod.

"Well, I doubt he wants to hear them. Judge Hardcastle doesn't strike me as the sort who needs everything out on the table in _any_ relationship."

"You picked that up on the first session, huh?" Mark said with a thin smile.

Westerfield gave a short laugh, then added, "But you shouldn't underestimate him. And, anyway, affection can go a long way toward creating understanding and acceptance."

"Affection?"

"Yeah, _affection_ . . . it's like love, only for guys." Westerfield grinned.

The waitress brought tea and wonton soup, smiling down at both of them with benign disinterest, in the way of youth toward its elders, then departing with their trays. Westerfield briefly reconsidered the man across the table, suddenly seeing that he was at least ten years older than most of the other clientele in the restaurant.

"Is it hard?" he asked abruptly, "I mean, to fit in?"

The question had come out unexpectedly, and as the fruit of simple curiosity. The other man seemed to take it as such, and looked around him for a moment, as if he was considering it for the first time.

"Well," he finally replied, with a shrug, "not really, I guess. Maybe I don't try all that much. I've always been an outsider." He smiled. "At least around here, if you offend someone's sense of proprieties, they don't try to get you in a dark corner and shove a shank into you."

He said it lightly, but the look in his eyes gave it an air of understated veracity.

"Anyway," he took in the room, and everything out beyond it, with one sweep of his eyes; then he was looking back at Westerfield with an intensity that was almost fierce, "I've never felt more like I belonged anywhere than where I'm at right now."

The older man could see it was true, and felt a shadow of what must have been Mark's panic the month before. _A long time coming to the right place and then to wake up and find all of it gone._ Which, of course, brought him back round to the really important question. _He'd be willing to give it up again, if that's what was necessary? _

He framed his next statement carefully. "I talked to Milt the other day." Honesty was the essential foundation of any relationship.

"Oh?" Mark's eyebrow went up in unspoken question.

"Yes," Westerfield sat back a little, still weighing each word before he spoke, "he said you'd offered to quit law school."

"He turned me down," Mark interjected quickly.

There was a pause before the younger man began again, more slowly. "He thinks he's the Lone Ranger, you know," he'd added that with a look of fond annoyance. "But he doesn't really get it." Mark frowned. "That 'Lone' part is all wrong. He wouldn't have lasted a month doing what he does without backup. Honestly."

"Oh, I think he gets it," Westerfield replied thoughtfully. "At least he seemed pretty sincere about retiring, if it meant you'd stay in school."

"Retirement?" Mark looked astonished. A moment later his hand went up to his forehead and he shook his head. "Is _that_ what he thinks I mean? Hell, it's just two more years. And I'll have the summers off . . . mostly. I dunno, does he think everything is gonna change after that?"

"Maybe," Westerfield replied slowly. "Maybe it will. _You'll_ change. He'll have to change, too."

The younger man's frown deepened. "But I thought he _wanted_ me to go to law school."

"Yes," Westerfield agreed, "but, more than that, I think he wants you to do whatever will make you happiest . . . aside from stealing cars," he added with a smile.

"Oh," Mark grinned right back at him, obviously not offended, "no cars; I'm past that." Then his face sobered again. "No question. I _want_ to be here. It's not for him . . . well, not _just_ for him." He hesitated, then started up again, more slowly. "It's just that," he was studying the older man's face carefully, "if I had to choose, I mean, between Tonto and law school . . . I dunno." He was still staring, as if he was waiting for a sign. Finally he blurted out the question, "Is that crazy?"

It was Westerfield's turn to smile. "I thought we'd decided that 'crazy' wasn't such a useful term."

Mark sighed impatiently. "You know what I mean." He was staring past the older man now, as if the answer was somewhere out there. After a moment of silence, which Westerfield did nothing to fill, he continued on, "Did I stop being myself somewhere along the way?"

This time Westerfield had no chance to answer before the younger man leaned forward and continued on, "Doc, I spent two years in prison, every minute of it being told what to do, where to be. When I got out, the first thing I swore was that I'd never be in that position again . . . and less than six months later, there I was, cleaning Hardcastle's pool." He shook his head with an air of utter disbelief. "I mean, I said to myself, at first, that I'd do _anything_ to keep from being sent back to Quentin, but my parole's been up for a year. What's my excuse now?"

"You have no family, do you?" Westerfield had said this abruptly, and it came out more as a statement than an inquiry.

Mark looked taken aback. "Um, no, not really."

"How old were you?"

"Ah, ten, when my mother died," he replied quietly.

"And your father?"

"Five," there was a little nervous hesitation and then, "He left when I was five."

"And later on?"

"My aunt and uncle." He grimaced "Then foster homes . . . I never lasted very long in one place."

"You _are_ an outsider," Westerfield commented thoughtfully, then, after a beat, "I can see how you wouldn't get it."

"Get what?"

"Oh," Westerfield looked up from his thought, "ah . . . get that there's a difference between a prison and a family. Within a family, people do what other people want not because they have to, but because they _want_ to."

"Doc," Mark smiled, "I never _wanted_ to clean Hardcastle's pool."

"Well, maybe not," Westerfield smiled back, "but you wanted to be a part of his family so, _ipso facto, _the pool got cleaned." He shrugged. "Did you ever do what you were told to do in prison because you _wanted_ to stay there?"

"No, of course not."

Westerfield nodded. "So you're not crazy."

"Insane," Mark corrected with a smile.

"Nuts," Westerfield grinned. "Whatever. You're not."

The younger man's smile faded somewhat. "And letting him be in charge of my life, that's normal, too?"

"Is he?"

There was a moment's silence. Then Westerfield went on, "He said he'd retire, just to make sure you didn't quit school. Who's in charge of whose life, here?"

"But," Mark swallowed hard, "I don't want to be in charge of his, either."

"Sorry," Westerfield shrugged again, "it goes with the territory. It's one of those family things. Anyway," he took a breath, "maybe 'in charge' is the wrong phrase here. It's really not so much that as it is mutual accommodation."

Mark stared at him doubtfully.

"But it _is_ a responsibility." Westerfield held his gaze for a moment, and then went on, "I'd say as long as you want to be here in the first place, and as long as he's making _his_ decision without resentment, and with a certain amount of self-interest, then that's what you've got here . . . mutual accommodation."

McCormick looked down at his soup, stirring it absently, then lifted his face abruptly. "But I don't want him to think he has to retire. I mean, not permanently."

"Then tell him that," Westerfield said practically. "But don't expect that in two years you'll be able to pick it up exactly where you put it down."

"I know," McCormick muttered. "Change. We talked about that . . . at least he's got a couple years to get used to the idea."

"Which one?" Westerfield asked the question with a tilt of his head.

"That he'll have a partner," Mark replied emphatically. "Instead of just a sidekick."

It was Westerfield's turn to look dubious.

"Okay," Mark grinned, "a _junior_ partner."

"Change," the older man smiled back at him, "is never easy."


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Rated: K+

Author's Notes: Therapy continues. This one is six months after the last, and follows the events of 'Dry Heat'.

Thanks again, Cheri and Owl.

**Sessions—Part 3**

Dr. Westerfield thought maybe it had been a one-shot deal, a little psychiatric first aid, his lunch with Mark McCormick. Sometimes that was all a person needed, like checking a map along the way to a destination—the merest self-reorientation. And six months had passed since that January afternoon when he'd had his first session with the man—in the guise of a social occasion.

So the call took him just a little by surprise, coming late on a Tuesday afternoon, at the beginning of June.

His receptionist had taken the name, and relayed it, along with the call, but he thought he would have recognized the casual, 'Hi, Doc,' even out of context.

He kept his own greeting equally light, and then a, 'What's up?', also low key, though surely _something_ was.

"Thought you might be free for, um, lunch." There was a raspy edge to the younger man's voice.

"How soon?" Westerfield thought he could make it dinner, that evening, if he had to.

Mark picked up on the concern. There was a quick laugh that ended in a slightly breathless cough.

"It's not _that_ bad, Doc."

"You sound more like a guy who needs an internist, than a shrink."

"Well, I'm actually way better than I was on Sunday . . . and it's not contagious."

Westerfield gave a quick laugh of his own. "That's one of the pluses of my line of work; my patients seldom are."

That had been a calculated gambit, at least partly acknowledging that their last lunch hadn't been merely social. That Mark didn't immediately launch himself into flustered denial of the status was itself interesting.

Instead, the young man said hesitantly, "Maybe tomorrow?" There was still a slight rasp to it,

"No problem," Westerfield said quickly. "Are you sure you don't want to just come to the office? At least you can lie down here." That, too, was a try at humor. They both knew he wasn't the psychoanalytical type, and there was nary a couch in sight on the premises.

"Oh, I'm okay enough for a lunch, as long as we find something that can be eaten one-handed," he added cryptically. "Maybe Italian?"

"There's a place near me. Eduardo's, right down the block."

"Perfect," Mark replied, with what might have been a small sigh of relief.

They set a time—noon—and said good-bye.

After he'd hung up, Westerfield started to make a little mental wager on whether or not he'd hear from the other half of the unusual partnership. In the absence of more definitive data, though, he really couldn't calculate the odds. At any rate, the phone stayed silent for the brief remainder of the day.

00000

Westerfield hadn't stopped to analyze whether agreeing to meet in the foyer was yet another concession to Mark's negative opinion of psychiatry. The younger man was waiting at the appointed time, leaning up against the wall, wearing a sling on his left arm with a certain amount of familiarity.

He intercepted Westerfield's frown with a quick, almost cheerful grimace.

"Shot?" the psychiatrist asked, with mild alarm.

"No . . . _bit_," Mark sighed. "Long story. We were investigating a murder in Arizona." He gestured toward the door with his good hand and fell into place at the older man's side.

Westerfield heard the same husky undertone to the man's voice as he'd noted on the phone, and there was a little labor to his breathing as they started to walk. He slowed himself almost imperceptively.

"So who bit you?" he asked curiously.

"Not 'who', more like a 'what'. A rattlesnake," Mark said matter-of-factly, casting a quick look down into the sling. "Not too bad, but it got a little infected. That was, um, Saturday." He frowned briefly as though he wasn't quite sure of that. "Yeah, just Saturday. Seems longer." Then he smiled ruefully and added, "Time flies when you're having fun." But the smile fell off quickly, replaced by a more sober expression. "I'm glad you could meet today. Tomorrow's the funeral."

Westerfield paused in mid-step and looked suddenly up. "Ah?"

"The victim, the murder we were investigating. She was the niece of an old friend. A professor."

"Oh," Westerfield exhaled. "There was something in the papers about that a couple days ago. They made it sound like a cult killing."

"Not exactly." Mark took a few shallow breaths. Westerfield heard the raspiness again. It was a little like the way the man had sounded back in January, after he'd very nearly not escaped from a burning building.

"You're having a relapse?" Westerfield pointed vaguely to his own throat and chest.

"Ah," Mark frowned. "No . . . a little exposure to some nerve gas. That's what the murder was really about." His tone had taken a bitter edge. "And it's probably some deep, dark government secret, but Patterson can go f—"

"_Nerve_ gas?" Westerfield asked with some alarm.

"Yeah," Mark was squinting at him, as if he was looking for some signs of being judged. "Look," he continued wearily, "it could happen to anybody."

"Not in one weekend," Westerfield replied dubiously. "Maybe not in one lifetime."

"All right," Mark conceded, "it was a little weird, but I told you, we were in _Arizona_."

They were at the door of the restaurant. Westerfield opened it and they passed through. The conversation stopped until they'd been seated, and then he studied the man across the table from him again.

"You're all right then?"

Mark shrugged lightly. "Yeah, no permanent damage. I got pretty lucky with the nerve gas. There was someone right there who knew what to do . . . scary, though. Screws up your vision, and it's kinda hard to breath."

Westerfield thought this might be an understatement, but he simply nodded.

"Anyway," Mark shook his head, "it was my own damn fault."

Westerfield let his eyebrows rise fractionally, in an unasked question.

"Yeah," Mark cocked his head and looked down at the sling-encumbered arm one more time. "I was supposed to be staying out of the way, on account of this . . . no," he added, after a moment's pause, "on account of there really wasn't a lot I _could_ do. This was kind of the judge's bailiwick. And there I go, running right into the middle of it, like Daffy Duck." He grimaced ruefully. "Stupid doesn't half begin to describe it."

"Well," Westerfield kept his expression non-committal, "you had some reason, right? There was something at stake that made you do what you did?"

"Oh, well, that," Mark's grimace persisted. "I suppose. It just aggravated the hell out of me to think the murderer was going to get away with it. Because we couldn't get a lousy search warrant, see?" Another shake of the head, this one seemed bemused. "When the hell did I develop such an implacable sense of justice? That's _his _attitude, not mine."

Both eyebrows were up; Westerfield forced them back down. He did allow himself a smile. "Hmm. You want to stick to that story? That friend of yours, the lieutenant, he did give me a little background on how you wound up with the judge."

Mark frowned thoughtfully. "That was . . . well, ah . . ." The frown deepened.

"Exactly," Westerfield nodded. Then he let the notion settle for a moment before continuing. "Is it such a bad thing, wanting justice?"

"It is when you go after it with a set of lock picks and a shaky grasp of the details. I didn't know this guy had a thirty gallon drum of nerve gas . . . I hope you realize that once I tell you all this stuff, Patterson's gonna have to kill you," he added, in an aside that was only half-humorous.

"Who's Patterson?" Westerfield asked, calmly curious.

"He's the guy the government sent to track down the stuff. It'd gone missing from a stockpile. He says I'm a loose cannon." Mark rolled his eyes upward. "God, I hate it when people like him are right."

"But he didn't find the gas; you did?"

"'Find' may not be the right term here, Doc. 'Tripped over' is more like it. The crazy guy who had done the murder, he knew Hardcastle and the sheriff were after a warrant. It was only a matter of time. He was trying to move it again."

"So you prevented that."

Mark shook his head. "Nope, the barrel was damaged. The guy knew he'd been exposed and he shot himself. Would've happened even if nobody had been around. Trouble was, he shot through the barrel, too. That's how I got a dose . . . like I said, Daffy Duck."

Westerfield was frowning. "I don't know a lot about nerve gas, but it vaporizes at low temperatures. That's how it's deployed."

McCormick nodded grimly.

"And only this fellow Patterson knew what it was, and he didn't know _where_ it was, or that the barrel was damaged?"

Two more nods. "They were waiting on a warrant, to search the general area. They probably would have gotten it sometime Monday morning. It was a shallow cave up in some cliffs."

"After sun-up, in Arizona, at the beginning of June?" Westerfield gave a low and impressed whistle. "They would've been walking into a death trap. Most of those things are pretty odorless. That's what makes them so effective."

Mark gave this a hard squint.

"You were there, right away, I presume. Before it had a chance to spread much?"

"Well, yeah, but it had already done _some_ spreading. I didn't know what hit me, and the other guy was dead."

"And who pulled you out?"

"Hardcastle . . . and Patterson. They'd put two and two together and were coming up, warrant or no warrant. They just didn't know I had gotten there first."

"And they were suited up; they knew it was a hazmat situation?"

"Ah," Mark frowned, "no . . . I mean, they must've figured it out when they saw me down on my knees, twitching. But by then it was a "McCormick's in trouble' situation. Hardcase hates those." His frown deepened. "They only had on gloves."

Westerfield gave another low whistle and then, after a pause, muttered, "Who says insanity isn't contagious."

Mark blanched. "It was _that_ dangerous? I mean, I knew it was bad, but . . ."

Westerfield nodded. "Of course, at least they knew what was going on, because you were 'twitching'. Gasping, too, I presume."

"Oh, yeah," Mark's response was heartfelt. "Lots of gasping."

"And the other guy was just dead? He'd shot himself?"

"Through the chest. Dead or nearly so."

"So," Westerfield cocked his head. "Had you _not_ been there, human instincts being what they are, they would have come charging up, having heard a gunshot, and seeing a victim on the ground. What do you suppose the judge would have done?"

The blanching was joined by a deeper frown. "Gone to him, checked him. At least a pulse. Might've tried to look at the wound, seen if there was anything that could be done. Might've stood around a bit, maybe, trying to figure things out."

"And would he have bothered to put on gloves?"

McCormick shook his head, certainty mixed with fear. "Don't think so. Nobody knew the damn barrel had been damaged."

"And he is, what, about twice your age?"

Mark nodded solemnly. "A little more."

"So you might say, without stretching credulity too much, that you did serve some useful function, getting there first and getting exposed to that stuff. A sort of canary-in-a-mine function, but very useful, nevertheless."

"Tweety Bird, not Daffy, huh?" Mark smiled thinly; the fear was still there.

"In a word . . .yes," Westerfield nodded encouragingly.

Mark sat for a moment, then took a deep breath that ended in a cough. "When he'd gotten that under control, he smiled ruefully again. "Still, the bottom line was I didn't know what the hell I was doing, but I went ahead and did it anyway."

"Look," Westerfield sighed and put one hand, palm up, on the table, "if you're willing to take the blame when you do something wrong by mistake, you have to be willing to take the credit when you do something _right_—"

"By mistake."

"Exactly." Westerfield smiled. "It's only fair."

Mark frowned again, though more lightly this time. He gave the older man a considering look and said, "This doesn't sound much like psychiatry, you know. You aren't even trying to tell me why I do these goofy things."

"Oh, that." Westerfield shrugged. "A strong sense of altruism, reinforced by tendencies toward expedience, and imaginative behavior. The only thing that might border on pathological in there, is this proclivity towards guilt that I keep picking up on."

"I don't think Hardcastle would want you to work on that one too much," Mark replied hastily. "Trust me, it's a survival tool."

"Maybe so," Westerfield replied. "Just don't take it to extremes, that'd be my main advice." He shook his head as he picked up the menu. "That, and stay out of Arizona."


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Rated: K+

Same dear betas, Owl and Cheri, and my same unceasing gratitude.

**Sessions—Part 4**

The call from Hardcastle came slightly more than twenty-four hours later.

"Back from the funeral already?" Westerfield asked, after their initial greetings.

This got him a quick, acquiescent grunt and, "I figured he went over to see you yesterday. I _told_ him I'd drive him if he wanted to go anywhere, but he left without letting me know. Took the truck, the only thing he could sort-of drive."

"We had lunch," Westerfield admitted.

"I'll bet." Hardcastle said dryly. "And he told you about the funeral." The man might have been shaking his head silently on the other end of the line. "I dropped him off at home just now. He still gets tired; he wasn't in any shape to go to the luncheon and answer a bunch of damn fool questions about things."

Westerfield detected a hint of irritation being aimed in his own direction, which was unusual. But, in the light of that, what followed was even more unexpected.

"Are you free for lunch again today?"

"Lunch, yes," the doctor admitted, "but I'm not free to talk about _him_ with you. We settled that before, didn't we?"

"I know, I know," Hardcastle crabbed lightly. "I don't want to know what he said to you. I just want to . . . _to_," he faltered.

"Talk about _you_?" Westerfield offered helpfully.

There was a muttered, "Well, _maybe_."

00000

It was Thursday, his afternoon schedule was light, and so he offered to meet the man over in Santa Monica, at a small café on Montana Avenue. He half-wondered, as he drove there, if that wasn't part of the plan, to pick a venue where there was a lot of bustle, something to fall back on if the going got too . . . _personal_.

But to his surprise, it was a low-key place, not much of the tourist crowd, more for the locals, and Hardcastle maneuvered them to a table at the edge of the patio, where it was quieter still.

He looked subdued, like a man who had just come from a funeral, and Westerfield launched the conversation in that direction.

"Yes," the judge replied slowly. "It was a very nice service, so many people. My friend, Bob Sturgis—he was her nearest kin—he seemed very composed." He frowned down at the table and then added, "That's how it is; it doesn't really sink in until later."

Westerfield nodded his understanding.

"Mark wouldn't wear the damn sling," he said with the barest of huffs. "Didn't want him to know."

"I'd suppose not," Westerfield said with a small smile.

There was a pause in the conversation, as if both men were studying the menu, then out of that crept an off-hand, quiet muse from Hardcastle. "Funerals," he said slowly, "they make you think about your own mortality . . . Well, maybe not your _own_."

He left the next bit unspoken, though it wasn't too hard to figure out whose mortality was in question.

Westerfield bided his time.

"I dunno," the older man was still speaking hesitantly, as though he wasn't sure if the topic bordered too much on what Westerfield had said he wouldn't talk about, "where the heck did he get the idea that it was okay to risk his life to catch a murderer? Vangie's still dead, and he almost wound up that way, too."

Westerfield sighed. "Some people have a passionate sense of justice."

"More like a stubborn, irrational sense of justice." Hardcastle scratched his head. "But I didn't think it was _contagious_."

"Hah," Westerfield shook his head and smiled, "parents always think they're entirely responsible for all this personality stuff." He caught a quick, nervous look from the judge. "All right, _in loco parentis_, same thing. The fact is, a lot of personality seems to be hard-wired. You've both got the altruism gene in spades; he's just weighted a little heavy on the expedience scale.

"Seems likely to me that you must've _noticed_ some of this," Westerfield continued, speculatively, "at least subconsciously, considering what landed him in your courtroom that second time."

"You've talked to Lieutenant Harper 'bout that, huh?" Hardcastle muttered. "How come it's okay to talk to him about _us_, but not okay to talk to me about McCormick?"

"Well," the psychiatrist smiled, "_that's_ all a matter of public record—not to mention, a fairly entertaining story when the lieutenant tells it. But," he continued, a little less lightly, "I think, consciously or not, you picked one of the few people around who's more likely to take on a windmill than you are."

There wasn't more than a moment's consideration before Hardcastle nodded and said, "_Exactly_." And then, "So how the hell do I get him to stop?"

"'Stop'?" Westerfield looked at him in puzzlement. "I don't think that's one of the options. Would it be for you?"

Hardcastle appeared to be giving this some honest thought. Finally he sighed and said, "Well, probably not."

"So, your next best option is to give him a better lance, right?"

The judge frowned.

"He's half-way through law school by now, isn't he?" Westerfield prodded.

"Yeah," Hardcastle sighed again, a little more windily. "And he is starting to _think_ like one, even though he doesn't think of himself _as_ one."

"It'll come," Westerfield reassured. "I always thought of myself as a bit of a fraud when I was on the wards in medical school."

"Hah," Hardcastle smiled, "I spent my first six months on the bench thinking why the hell would _anybody_ trust me with that job."

"And in the end we become what we are."

"If he lives that long," Hardcastle said soberly.

"Life is risk. Every time we get behind the wheel of a car—"

"Oh, _especially_ him," Hardcastle said grimly.

"Well," Westerfield cocked his head, "that wasn't the point I was trying to make."

"Yeah, I know." The judge managed a thin smile. "I just wonder, sometimes, if all this," he made a vague gesture that appeared to include a lot of the preceding few years, "is just an excuse. If he won't be happy if he's not pushing the edge of the envelope, that he _needs_ to take risks."

"That being a lawyer will be too sedate for him?" Westerfield added quietly.

"Yeah," Hardcastle said flatly. "Hanging up the cleats, settling down to a desk job."

"Was it for you?" Westerfield asked. "Boring, I mean?"

"Never," the judge replied without any hesitation. "Well, maybe some of the paperwork but, hell, even NASCAR has paperwork." He grinned for a moment and then pushed ahead, intently. "To me, the law is the most challenging thing there is. It takes everything you've got, and the stakes are so high; you gotta get it right."

"Well, that might be a problem," Westerfield said thoughtfully.

"No," Hardcastle reassured him. "The kid'll be good at it. He really _cares_, and he's sharp."

"Oh," the doctor smiled, "I wasn't casting aspersions on his skills, just wondering how he'll handle the stakes."

Hardcastle thought about it for a moment and then nodded once, very definitively. "Well, that's what I'm here for . . . and you, maybe, too."

"To help him handle the guilt?" Westerfield smiled.

"Ah," Hardcastle cast him a brief, worried look, "not too much of that. Sometimes I think that's the only thing standing between him and no risk avoidance at all."

"But maybe a little fine-tuning?"

"Maybe." Hardcastle grinned and then, after a pause, "Hey, so I thought you said you weren't going to talk to me about McCormick."

Westerfield gave a palms-up gesture and a small shrug. "Believe it or not, we've mostly been talking about you."

Hardcastle frowned and fell silent, as if he was running a brief review of the conversation that had just passed. He opened his mouth but Westerfield continued.

"It just seems that the main thing on your mind right now is Mark."

"_That_ happens a lot. He worries the hell out of me sometimes."

"And you were feeling guilty yourself, that maybe he does what he does for _you_?"

Hardcastle nodded. Then, after a moment of nervous silence, "I think he was feeling not very useful. He _likes_ feeling useful."

"But you set him straight on that, I imagine."

"Mostly . . . I think." The judge smiled ruefully. "It's kinda hard, you know, when he goes out and fetches something important, but I just _know_ he got it in some crazy way, maybe even illegally. But there it is, and it's what I needed, and . . . damn, I can't very well yell at him too much, if I'm using what he's brought."

"Hypocritical, huh?" Westerfield said sympathetically.

"Damn straight," Hardcastle replied with feeling. "And when he does the _really_ insane things, and winds up flat on his back, well, what the hell am I supposed to do then? It's damn hard to be angry and relieved at the same time." The judge frowned. "Hey," he looked up slowly, "we're still not talking about McCormick?"

"No," Westerfield shook his head once, with certainty. "This is definitely about you."

"Yeah, well, he's the only person who makes me this crazy. So, what the hell do I do about it?"

There was the barest moment's pause before Westerfield said, "Ground him."

Hardcastle gave him a look of absolute bafflement.

"Doc, much as I'd like to, I _can't_. Hell, that didn't even work when he was a parolee. He's a grown man, for Pete's sake."

"Oh," said Westerfield sagely, "you noticed, eh?"

Hardcastle narrowed his eyes.

"Yeah," Westerfield nodded his agreement, "a fairly competent adult, by most measures. Maybe a little impulsive at times."

"_Impulsive_," the judge muttered.

"But all in a good cause," the doctor went on. "And I thought we'd already concluded that _that_ was not your doing. He came that way. In fact, it's possible you've even been a moderating influence on his behavior. I mean, he hasn't been back to prison since he started staying with you."

"Yet," Hardcastle muttered again.

"But the most important thing is, he _is_ an adult." Westerfield shrugged again lightly. "It's always a dicey thing between parents and adult children."

The nervous look again.

"Or _any_ such archetypical relationship. Mentor and pupil. Batman and Robin. There comes a time when the older has to recognize the independence of the younger. And part of that independence is the right to make their own mistakes, and learn from them."

"If they're survivable," Hardcastle shot back sharply.

"I think he understands the risks better than you realize."

"And _still_ he does this crazy stuff," the judge said with mounting frustration.

"The stakes, in these cases, seem to be very high, which means a higher risk may be justifiable," Westerfield added soberly,

"So what the hell _am_ I supposed to do?"

"Remind him of his part in the equation—his own worth, not just to you, but _inherently_, as a person. Try to get him to factor that in. I have a feeling he hasn't had much practice thinking about the idea. Altruism comes easily to people who think everyone else is worth more than they are."

Hardcastle shook his head slowly. "If he hasn't figured that out by now . . ."

"Keep reminding him. How many years was he being told otherwise?"

"Too many," the judge said flatly.

"May be a long row to hoe, then," Westerfield said practically.

Hardcastle nodded and finally replied, slowly, "'S'okay. I can handle that. Might scare him a little, though. He's gonna think I'm up to something."

"Well, he'll be right, in a way."

The judge grinned for a moment, and then his eyebrows went up in a question. "Doc, we're definitely talking about McCormick now."

"Nope," Westerfield reassured him, "still you. How you deal with him, that's all."

Hardcastle gave him a look of bemusement. "You psychiatrists sure have a strange way of looking at things."

"That's why I get paid the big bucks," the doctor grinned, as he picked up his menu.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: These characters still aren't mine and I still make no profit from them.

Author's notes: Set after '_The End of Civilization as We Know It_', or, at least, what would have been the end, had it not been for a timely intervention by Mark with 1.1 pounds of boron and five gallons of gasoline.

A couple of lines herein are borrowed from Cheri's story _Road to Recovery_.

Thanks Owl and Cheri.

**Sessions—5 **

Westerfield had been half-expecting the call. Anniversaries of traumatic events tended to raise issues all over again for many people, and now, sliding into the middle of December, it was nearly one year out from the unfortunate episode that had nearly claimed Judge Hardcastle's memory and Mark McCormick's life.

And he fully expected that any call, from either man, would come thinly veiled as an invitation to lunch. It was a functional sort of denial, and he would no more dismantle it than he would take apart a watch to see what made it tick.

What he was not expecting, first thing that Monday morning, was a note on his desk that read: _Message on machine from Paul Hanley. Said referred by Mark McCormick. Left no number._

The receptionist couldn't elaborate. The message had been left that morning, while she was down the hall getting fresh water for the coffeemaker. Mr. Hanley hadn't sounded distraught. Young, maybe.

Phillip Westerfield frowned and flipped through his Rolodex, intending to call Mark and ask him to fill in the blanks, but before he even got to the 'M's the receptionist was buzzing him again.

"Must've been a bad weekend," she said dryly. "It's Mr. McCormick now."

Westerfield smiled thinly to himself, not having any intention of explaining to her just how bad some of Mr. McCormick's previous weekends had been. He picked up the transferred line.

"Good morning, Mark, everything okay?"

Only a trained professional would have caught the momentary hesitation that preceded the ritual, "Fine, and you?" but the man's voice was even and there didn't seem to be much tension in it.

Westerfield decided for direct. "Who's Paul Hanley?"

"Ah." There seemed to be a note of satisfaction in the single syllable. "He called. That's, ah, good, I think. I really think he needs to talk to somebody."

Westerfield noted with some interest that Mark's reticence to 'see a psychiatrist' apparently extended to referrals, too. He resisted a brief, fleeting urge to at least take the cover off the watch and have a look inside. Instead, he stuck to a casual inquiry, "He's a friend of yours?"

"Yes." Another vague moment of hesitation, and then, "I met him about two years ago."

Nothing more was offered, but Westerfield had a sense that there was a lot of story behind the few words.

"He didn't leave a number. Could you ask him to call back? My receptionist will make him an appointment."

"Ah . . . well," more silence, and then Mark started, a little slowly, "he might not want you to call him at home."

"Okay, an office number then."

He could almost hear McCormick frowning, and then, finally, "Listen, Doc, you free for lunch today? I'm gonna have to explain a bunch of stuff."

Westerfield looked down at his appointment book and then sighed gently into the receiver. "Eduardo's, twelve-fifteen?"

"Perfect."

00000

Mark was out on the street in front of the restaurant at precisely the appointed time. Westerfield was pleasantly surprised to see him looking well, with no slings, bandages, or other evidence of misadventure. But there was a slight air of skittishness about him, as though he wasn't bearing good tidings and wasn't too sure what his reception would be.

Westerfield allowed himself to be ushered in, and held off on any questions until they'd been shown to a table. Then it was Mark who spoke first.

"I suppose I should've talked to you first, before I gave Paul your name."

Westerfield waved that away. "I don't mind referrals."

"Well, Paul's kind of different." Mark smiled, but there was a nervous edge to it.

"He's a friend of yours," Westerfield said with an encouraging expression.

"Yeah," Mark admitted. "That oughta tell you something right there." He sat back a little and took a breath, as though he was going to launch into a story. "I met him when he was fourteen—"

The psychiatrist frowned. "I thought you said on the phone that you'd only known him for two years?"

"Uh-huh," Mark nodded briefly, "that's one of the things I wanted to explain. That _was_ two years ago."

The frowned deepened a little. "You know, Mark, adolescent psychiatry is really a subspecialty of its own, I'm not—"

"Oh," Mark interrupted, "I don't think Paul really falls into one of those categories. I mean, yeah, he's sixteen, but, whoa, there's a whole lot more going on that that. Like, um, for example, how I met him . . ." Mark looked around briefly and then leaned forward, dropping his voice. "He was on the lam from a couple of Russian arms dealers, because he'd stolen the innards of a nuclear bomb. And Patterson, you remember me telling you about him? The guy with the nerve gas? He was after Paul, too."

Westerfield leaned back. It was one of those times when there really wasn't any adequate response, though to anyone besides Mark McCormick his answer probably would have been Thorazine.

"So," Mark was still pitching his voice low, "we made a flat-out run across the desert to Nevada with twenty pounds of plutonium and a detonator in the back of this really _ancient_ Ford pickup."

"You were along for the ride?" Westerfield asked bemusedly.

"Hell, I was driving. Like I said, he was only fourteen." Mark shook his head as though he didn't quite believe it himself. "And, ah, I was sort of coerced," he said, a little primly. "But, it all turned out okay in the end."

"Well," the older man agreed, "last I heard, southern Nevada is still on the map."

"And Paul did handle the plutonium very responsibly," McCormick added quickly. "He explained the part about critical mass to me."

Westerfield thought there was a good chance his face was betraying some concerns at this point. Mark seemed compelled to explain further.

"He had to do it; his, um, guardian, Dr. Mlotkowski—he's a retired physicist—he was being blackmailed."

"Paul has no parents?"

"Mostly, no," Mark replied, frowning. "His mom's alive, but she's pretty far gone. Schizophrenia. His father . . ." that trailed off into a shrug.

Westerfield nodded, starting to see the outline of the thing, even if the details were still a bit sketchy.

"But this was all two years ago? And it ended, ah, happily?"

"Yeah, plutonium saved, Patterson, well, I wouldn't call him _happy_, but nobody got arrested. And Paul got Mlotkowski back in one piece, and vice versa."

"And that _was_ two years ago?"

"Yeah, a little more. And everything seemed fine. I've talked to Paul a few times since then."

"And now?"

"Well, a week ago Saturday, something happened."

"Not another incident involving plutonium?" Westerfield asked cautiously.

Mark shook his head. "Oh, no, not plutonium . . . something sort of worse."

The psychiatrist felt his eyebrows rise and stay pretty much up there while Mark told him about Patterson's fingers, a mouse snuff film, and his and Paul's near-run thing in the Mojave.

And finally the story petered down to ". . . and he still seemed a little upset when I went to see him a couple days ago."

"Upset?" Westerfield repeated. Then he ducked his chin. After a few moments he raised it again, saying, "I was trying to remember what I did last Saturday. I think I had my oil changed."

"You don't do that yourself?" Mark asked. "It's really easy."

"What I meant, was . . ." Westerfield sat for a long, silent moment, trying to pick up the loose end of the conversation. He finally shook his head and said, "Never mind, I'm not sure it's something I could explain." He saw that Mark's expression had become rather puzzled.

The psychiatrist sighed and then made another attempt. "See, you say the Saturday before last we were eight inches away from the China syndrome, but you tell it like it's yesterday's news and what the heck is there for the kid to still be upset about." Westerfield gave the younger man a fairly intense look. "Just how fast is your reset button?"

There was a moment of silence. He began to think he wasn't going to get an answer. Then, finally, McCormick said, reluctantly, and with a half-shrug, "As fast as it needs to be."

The casual tone had conveyed more than the words. Westerfield sighed again. "That's what I figured. And you came through this one okay?"

Mark shrugged, gave a quick glance down at his hands, resting on the table and said, "Not a scratch."

"That's not what I meant," the older man replied patiently.

McCormick smiled. "Yeah," he said, the smile stayed firmly in place, "I know. The rest is okay, too. Well, after the first couple of nights.

"You know," he added, after another moment's silence, "it was kind of interesting. He didn't even yell at me."

His smile slipped into something more thoughtful and it was obvious that the subject had shifted slightly, and the 'he' in question was Hardcastle. Mark was studying his hands.

"I used to get a buzz out of doing stuff that was, ah, a little over the line . . . like breaking in somewhere and boosting a car."

The thoughtful look had gone to a nervous frown. He spared an upward glance at Westerfield, as if he was gauging the effect of what he'd said. Then he went on.

"Hardcastle put up with a lot of it. I mean, he'd fuss, but he could've done a lot more than that. I kinda wonder, sometimes, if he hadn't come along and, ah, _redirected_ me, how long I would've lasted on the outside. Really. You know I only made it six months after I got out of San Quentin." There was a long sigh. "I had sworn up and down that I wouldn't get in that position again and yet . . ."

"Like a compulsion?" Westerfield asked quietly.

A nod, and then, "Yeah, maybe. Only, working with Hardcastle I had better reasons, that's all. And he covered for me a few times. He'd yell, but he'd back me up." The smile returned, more bemused. "And, then, six months ago, he said I ought to give him my picks, the set."

"That would have been mostly symbolic, I imagine."

"Yeah," Mark agreed. "I could've always gotten another set, and there've been lots of times when I've improvised," he added, practically. "But, anyway, I wouldn't, not then. I don't know why."

Westerfield gave this some thought. "Pride? A sense of independence?"

Mark cocked his head a little. "Hah, maybe. I thought I'd given both of those up a long time ago."

"I seriously doubt that."

"Yeah," McCormick grinned, "you're probably right . . . anyway, I wouldn't, and he didn't make too big a deal out of it. He even made sure they got back to me, a little while after that, when I'd, ah, misplaced them."

"Sounds like you'd reached an agreement."

"Yeah, without exactly agreeing on it," Mark nodded. "We do that sometimes. And then, two days ago, I tried to give them to him."

"'Tried'?"

"Yeah, and he wouldn't take them." McCormick gave him a puzzled look. "Now all of a sudden he says they're just tools and I'll figure out how to use them. Hell," he added with vehemence, "I already _know_ how to use them. That's the part that worries me." There wasn't much humor in his expression.

"So," Westerfield asked, "why now? Why did you want to give them to him?"

He watched the younger man give this a moment's thought and then a half shrug before he said, "Not sure. It seemed right. You know what I said, about not getting a buzz off of it anymore."

"_That_ was the reason?" Westerfield put all his doubt into the tone.

Mark sat, looking momentarily doubtful himself. Then he said, "Well, that's what I told _him_, but, I dunno."

"When did the idea occur to you?"

"Ah, maybe a little that Saturday before, after it was all over, but I didn't, not then. Mostly it was on the way home from Paul's _this _Saturday."

"And why then?"

Mark frowned. "He'd just given me his."

"Paul had a set of lock picks?" Westerfield tried to keep the surprise out of his voice.

"Yeah," Mark said musingly. "I mostly used his last Saturday. I don't know when he got them."

Westerfield smiled gently. "Sometime in the last two years, perhaps?"

Mark shot him a sharp glance. "I suppose . . . _I _sure as hell didn't encourage him. Anyway," he grimaced, "Paul lent them to me the week before; I'd left mine at home, and when I tried to return them, _this_ Saturday, he asked me to hold on to them."

"For safekeeping?" Westerfield asked mildly.

Mark nodded his head in what appeared to be worried disbelief.

"It's a lot of responsibility," the older man said, still mildly, "having someone look up to you."

"_I_," McCormick said intensely, "am a lousy role model. When I told him other people might have some answers, some experience—that maybe he should _listen _to them—I sure as hell didn't mean _me_."

Westerfield shrugged. "We don't get a choice, sometimes. Responsibility just happens. And you said he has a guardian?"

Mark nodded.

"So, you're just one role model, one influence. Not the whole thing. That's how it is for most people."

"And from me he'll get a tendency to do whatever he damn well pleases and to hell with the consequences, and, if you ask me, he doesn't really need any reinforcement on that."

"But you showed him the consequences," Westerfield said. "And you said it disturbed him some—not that _that_ surprises me any—and _then _he gave you the picks."

"Yeah," Mark nodded again.

"And then you tried to give them to the judge—just yours, or both sets?" he asked, speculatively.

"Both."

"Passing the buck?"

There was a pause and then he muttered, "Maybe, except he wouldn't take them. How come?"

Westerfield shrugged again. "Sounds like a vote of confidence, if you ask me. You're going to question that?"

Mark didn't answer.

"Look," the older man smiled, "you say you trust Hardcastle's judgment. You even made this gesture; you gave him this object that represents—what?—a habit you have that might not always be constructive."

Another nod.

"And then he tells you to keep them—he's telling you that he trusts you, right?"

"I suppose," Mark said slowly.

"Well, that's part of his judgment, too. So . . . do you trust it, or not?"

Mark opened his mouth, then closed it. His expression was still a little dubious. He finally said, "One time, a couple years ago, I said that to him, 'what if I don't always trust myself?'"

"What did he say to that?"

"Oh," Mark's forehead furrowed a bit, "something about if it came to that, I should talk to him . . . and that he had enough trust for the both of us."

"Yeah," Westerfield gave that a moment's thought, "sounds about right. Nobody can rely on their own judgment one hundred percent of the time."

"Nobody, huh?" McCormick said quietly. The words just hung there, with Westerfield smiling silently. Mark finally answered his own question, almost hesitantly.

"Last Saturday, after it was all over, we were still out there in the desert, and we had to get rid of something," he paused, looking a little furtive. "Um, it might've been considered evidence, but it wasn't really necessary to the case and if we'd handed it over it would have drawn a lot of attention to Paul."

Westerfield still said nothing, but continued a mild smile of encouragement.

McCormick smiled back, a little thin, a little worried. "So, anyway, we'd decided to burn this thing . . . a notebook."

There was the slightest emphasis on the 'we' that made the doctor think it had probably not been a 'we' sort of decision at all.

"And then," Mark continued slowly, "when we got right down to it, he asked _me_ if we were doing the right thing." He shook his head. "That was weird. I'm not sure he's ever done that before." He paused for a moment and then, "Hell, I _am_ sure—he's _never_ said anything like that to me before. It was . . . _disturbing_."

Westerfield considered him for a moment and then eased back in his seat, both hands palms up on table. He asked, simply, "_Was_ it the right thing to do?"

Mark nodded decisively, and then said, more hesitantly, "But for him not be sure—"

"What difference does it make?" Westerfield interjected. "He's got a pretty reliable moral compass, but, then, so do you—"

Mark began to shake his head.

"—but you do, most of the time. And if he wants to compare the readings every once in a while, really, should that be so surprising?"

McCormick was still sitting, silent, appearing bemused.

"And if someone is using _you_ as a role model, that's even more reason to keep the compass handy," Westerfield added, with a firm smile.

The younger man squinted for a moment.

"Yeah," McCormick finally said, seeming to shake himself free from a thought, "what about Paul?"

"You mean me talking to him?" Westerfield shrugged. "Sure. I'd like to meet him."

"Just for lunch," Mark added, not completely free from the worried expression he'd had a moment earlier.

"Lunch," Westerfield said with a small sigh, "Of course."


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Heck, these _are_ both my own characters--well, that's a switch.

Author's notes: Follows on after chapter five. It's Paul Hanley and Dr. Westerfield, so some of you may just want to just jump ahead to number seven.

Thanks again, Cheri and Owl, for this one and #7—finding time to beta in the midst of a whole lot of other stuff.

**Sessions—6 **

Westerfield had talked to him directly just once, on the phone the day before. Paul had seemed unusually self-possessed, though his voice was still reedy enough to betray his age. And, much to the doctor's surprise, he didn't seem to share Mark's antipathy toward office visits.

But the kid didn't drive, except in instances of flagrant necessity. So, Westerfield found himself on the steps of the university's library, at nearly noon the next day.

He saw him in the vestibule, sitting on one of the benches; nose buried in a book, and knew him as if by sight. Gangly, with an intense, bespectacled expression, and young, even by college freshman standards—he might as well have had 'prodigy' stamped on his forehead. Westerfield stepped inside and walked over to him. The kid looked up, almost before the shadow crossed the page.

He blinked once, as though he'd almost forgotten he was here for an appointment. Then there was a sudden and unexpected smile.

"Dr. Westerfield?"

The psychiatrist nodded and said 'yes', and Paul held out his hand and introduced himself with a certain degree of formality.

Westerfield thought he must've let a little of his surprise slip out into his expression because the kid quickly grinned and added, "I've been properly trained by a Polish academician. Don't worry; I can control it around people my own age."

Westerfield chuckled and Paul made a gesture back toward the inner doors of the library. "I reserved us a room." Then he was on his feet, leading the way through the bunches of students.

"I tutor here," he added, in a nonchalant but quiet aside as he fielded a set of keys and a puzzled look from one of the librarians. "So far, I think Mark's been my oldest. They probably think you're taking an adult ed course." He stepped down the corridor to the third door on the right and unlocked it. "I didn't explain this to them. I didn't think they'd want me using the place for therapy."

There'd been no particular emphasis on the last word, no hint of reserve. Westerfield gave him an appraising look and then said, "You're okay with that? The idea of getting help from a psychiatrist?"

Paul shrugged, then flashed a small smile. "That's Mark's hang-up, huh? I figured it was something like that. Nah, I'm okay with it." He frowned. "Not sure it'll do any good." The frown had gone to a more distant look, and then, "What'd he tell you about me?"

Westerfield was caught a little off-balance by this much directness. He hesitated a moment, taking a seat and gesturing Paul to the chair across from him. "Just some background," he admitted.

He sat back in his chair, crossed his legs, and tried not to look too analytical. He thought the kid might be analytical enough for the both of them. He was grateful, for once, not to have to be juggling a menu at the same time as the conversation.

"My mom, huh?" Paul said flatly, after a moment of expectant silence. "He met her once, a couple of years ago. Though I'm not sure 'meet' is the right word. It's sort of a one-way transaction with mom. The hebephrenic bits used to be a little scary, but the catatonic episodes . . ." He shook his head. "It's like visiting a corpse."

That comment, delivered with flat resignation, hung in the air for a moment, as though Paul was waiting to see how it would be received. When Westerfield expressed no shock, nor any inclination to disagree, he continued on.

"I left when I was about twelve. She'd become kind of . . . unpredictable." He paused again, leaving that undefined. Westerfield merely nodded.

"Anyway," Paul finally sighed, "I wasn't doing her any good." Yet another pause, as though Paul was still working through the words before he spoke them. "I don't think I exist for her anymore."

"Do you have any other family?"

"None that she ever mentioned, not while I was growing up."

"Did you ever look, I mean, after you left?" Westerfield left the 'growing-up' part untouched. Another useful illusion, that he would think he'd done all of that before he was twelve.

Paul shrugged. "Hanley's a common name, and it's the only one on my birth certificate. If there was anyone she didn't mention, she must've had her reasons." He grimaced; Westerfield thought he might not even be aware he was doing it. "And I have a home."

"That's what Mark said. Someone from the university?"

"Professor Mlotkowski. He's retired." Paul smiled thinly. "You know it wasn't like I needed looking after. I was getting along okay."

"Isn't it easier, though?" Westerfield asked, in a tone of genuine curiosity. "To have a home, and someone to look out for you?"

Another shrug. "I suppose . . .yeah," he admitted, "it is." His expression went distant again. "As long as you remember everything is subject to change without notice . . . Mark gets that."

"Most people do," the psychiatrist agreed, "once it's happened to them. The rest of us just pretend it can't."

"Yeah," Paul shot him a sharp glance, as though he'd thought he would have to argue the point more.

"So," Westerfield finally said, "which change do you worry about the most?" Again he couldn't help it; it was frank curiosity.

Paul frowned. "Mark didn't tell you?"

"No."

"Well, that I'll wind up like her, of course." The frown persisted. "I would've thought that'd be pretty obvious."

"People don't always worry about the obvious thing," Westerfield replied. "Sometimes they do everything in their power to ignore the obvious."

"Not me," Paul said grimly. "I dwell on it. Damn near obsessive." He shook his head. "But I don't think I've ever mentioned it to anyone, except Mark."

"Not even Professor Mlotkowski?"

Anther quick shake of the head.

"How come?"

Paul sat there for a moment, saying nothing. When the answer finally came, it was very quiet, "He already worries too much, and most of it is about me." The kid's brows were knitted in worries of his own. "He's old, you know. Over seventy."

"In good health, though?"

Paul nodded. "But," he hesitated, "I can be a little hard on people." He tipped his head back and seemed to be studying the wall behind Westerfield. He started up again slowly. "If I were to start losing it, he wouldn't handle it too well."

"Eighty-seven percent," Westerfield said abruptly.

Paul gave him a sharp look.

Westerfield lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "Eighty-seven percent of children of schizophrenics do _not_ develop schizophrenia."

Paul said nothing.

"I thought," the doctor continued, "that you've probably spent a lot of time thinking about it the other way."

"That thirteen percent do?"

"Yes. I think it sounds better the way I put it."

"But it's the same statistic," Paul pointed out. "Besides, I've never thought of myself as a lucky person."

"You've survived two outings with Mark McCormick and yet you think you're not lucky?" Westerfield smiled.

"Hah," Paul said, with a small smile of his own, "the first time, I kidnapped _him_."

"I believe he used the term 'coerced'."

"Yeah, well, he would put it that way," Paul grinned. Then almost as suddenly, the grin faded to something almost wistful. "He _is _lucky."

Westerfield's eyebrows went up—it was entirely involuntary.

"Yeah," Paul reiterated.

"You have an interesting definition of luck. I mean, beyond the ability to survive bad luck," the doctor mused.

"Yeah," Paul nodded, "there's _that_, but that wasn't what I meant."

Westerfield merely looked quizzical.

Paul's gaze roved over the room restlessly for a moment, as though he was searching for the explanation. He finally sighed, and looked back, directly at Westerfield.

"He can walk away from stuff; I've seen it. Yeah, he worries, but when it's over, it's over, and it's just behind him. He doesn't sit around and obsess about it. I swear, he's gotta be crazy to be that sane."

"That's a very interesting perspective," Westerfield said, after a moment's thought.

"I know, 'crazy' isn't an operative term for a shrink," Paul said grudgingly.

"'Shrink' isn't an operative term for a shrink, either,' Westerfield smiled.

This got him a conciliatory smile in return.

"But, anyway," the psychiatrist said, dragging the conversation back in the direction of constructive, "You and Mark seemed to have one thing in common."

Paul was giving him a stare of open doubt.

"You're both frighteningly well-adapted to living in interesting times," Westerfield said. "And I do not choose the term 'frightening' lightly."

"Well," Paul cocked his head, "I guess the thing with me is, what the hell, I'm probably going to be hearing the voices before I'm twenty. There really isn't anything else that comes even close to being that scary . . . except I don't want to take someone else down with me."

"Eighty-seven percent," Westerfield reminded him gently. "If you do something rash, and survive it, you might have another, say, seventy years of sanity in which to regret it."

Paul sat there, looking sober. The silence spun out for a few moments. He finally let out a breath and then said, "What we did last weekend, it was pretty damn rash."

"Well," Westerfield tilted his head a little, giving it some consideration, "It wasn't as though the alternative was any better, and the only really rash thing was Mark going into that building to bring out a man who was possibly already past saving."

"Yeah," Paul said with feeling, as though he was relieved to finally find someone who saw the obvious truth.

"—and the alternative there would have been setting fire to the structure with a man still in it. Could you have done that?"

Paul blanched.

"See, sometimes a choice involves so much sacrifice of moral principle, that even if a person survived, they really could not live with the outcome. That's what it is, to be altruistic.

"And all you did was to provide the data; he made the decision about how to act on it. The data was correct, wasn't it?'

Paul nodded slowly.

"So," the psychiatrist continued, "you are not responsible for his actions in this case, aside from providing information. He wasn't kidnapped or 'coerced' this time, was he?"

"No," Paul agreed reluctantly. "But I did make some pretty firm suggestions about how we should proceed."

"But they were based on the facts? And if you had concealed the facts, they would have been no less true, would they?"

Paul shook his head.

"He brought you evidence, and he asked you to explain it to him. You did the best you could, and then so did he. Neither one of you was responsible for what was in the box."

"I can see why Mark likes to talk to you," the boy said dryly.

Westerfield shrugged. "I'm just glad we're all still here to talk about it. And, anyway, the same thing happened to me."

Paul looked momentarily startled.

"Yes, it was about a year ago." The psychiatrist smiled. "He brought me a box of papers and asked me to figure them out. It was data about a chemical, very dangerous, something that the judge had been accidentally exposed to. I explained it to him, and then he went out and did something about it. It very nearly got him killed."

The boy frowned momentarily in silent thought. Then finally he mused, "It's not just me, huh. I thought maybe I was some kind of weird jinx for him."

"No," Westerfield cocked his head a little and looked thoughtful, "I'd have to say that if we are going to give credence to the idea of a jinx, I'd have to vote for Mark McCormick as the index case. I have it on pretty good authority that he can get into this kind of trouble entirely on his own."

"He sort of said that to me, you know, the first time . . . when I was apologizing for getting him into the middle of it." Paul sighed. "Well, that explains a lot, I suppose."

The psychiatrist gave him a questioning look.

"Oh," Paul continued, "about how he is—when things start to happen, I mean. You tell him you've put plutonium in his trunk, and a guy starts waving a Kalashnikov at him, and he looks a little worried and grumbles some, but that's it."

"Like I said," Westerfield nodded, "well adapted to interesting times. Maybe for different reasons than yourself, but adapted, nonetheless." He paused a moment, then cast Paul a sharp glance. "Are you familiar with Jung?"

"A little," the kid shrugged. "In translation. From when I was younger, you know, when my mom started getting worse. I read everything I could . . . What a crock. Freud, too. She's not the way she is because her inner consciousness is in disharmony. She doesn't_ have_ a damn inner consciousness anymore." He spat the words out bitterly. "You can't _talk_ someone better from that."

"No, psychosis has a biochemical basis," Westerfield agreed. "But some of what Jung said, about the unconscious self, the 'shadow' self, being the opposite of what we think we are. It's an awfully useful explanation for some behaviors.

"Mark, for example, I would say he is a very decent person, and very much inclined to take action, no matter what the personal cost, when something bad is happening."

Paul said nothing.

"Jung would say he must have an equally powerful shadow self, in this case, a dark version," Westerfield said speculatively.

"And you think he needs to get that out in the open?" Paul asked doubtfully

"Hell, no," the psychiatrist said with a sharp grin. "I'm not that much of a Jungian. There's such a thing a functional repression, in my book." Then he looked at Paul even more intently. "Now you—"

Paul's expression went a little tighter, but again he said nothing.

"I would wager a guess that your childhood was . . . _chaotic_."

The continuing silence was itself an answer.

"And now you study the hardest of hard sciences, the one which tries to reduce all behavior of matter and energy to understandable rules. Am I right so far?"

A nod. A seeming reluctance to have his own behavior reduced to simple rules.

"Don't worry; I won't take the analogy too far." Westerfield smiled. "But you did give up a life of gypsy-like freedom for something a lot more structured, right?"

"Yes," Paul said. Then he added insistently, "but I _had_ to."

"And it's a good thing," Westerfield added. "You'll probably live a lot longer eating three meals a day and sleeping under a roof. And that'll give you more time to figure out how it all fits together." He smiled reassuringly. "And I'd say your shadow self isn't particularly dark, just impulsive, and it's a lot closer to the surface than Mark's. But I do think it recognized a kindred spirit when it saw one."

"Sometimes," Paul hesitated, then went forward in what was almost a rush, "I just want to turn it off. The thinking. I just want to do stuff without . . ."

Paul hesitated again, looking very uncomfortable.

"That's a high performance engine you're working with there. It even idles fast."

"Wrong guy for that analogy," Paul said ruefully. "I'm the one with too few graphite rods in the reactor core."

"That, too," Westerfield nodded. "Try to accept it for what it is. And you are entitled to an impulse once in a while. Not every potential action needs to be given the same amount of thought. And Mark's entitled to get angry now and then, too. I just hope both of you can avoid anything permanently destructive when you cut loose."

"Let it out a little at a time? Avoid the big tectonic shifts?"

"Precisely," Westerfield smiled, then he glanced down at his watch. "Enough thinking for one day. You hungry?"

Paul didn't give that much apparent thought before he nodded.

"I've still got some time before I have to head back. Come on, I'll take you to lunch. It's traditional." He smiled as he stood. "Do you like Mongolian barbeque?"


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Author's Note: The third part in this section, still following _The End of Civilization . . ._

**Sessions—7 **

It wasn't that Westerfield believed in the adage that things come in threes, but he wasn't much surprised to receive a phone call from the judge the next morning. After an exchange of greetings, the psychiatrist asked, "Is tomorrow okay for you?"

This got him a brief moment of silence followed by a chuckle from the man at the other end of the line.

"I just want you to know," Westerfield went on, "that I've already been to Eduardo's once this week. I think I'm going to hit you up for a prime rib dinner. After that story Mark told me about last weekend, I've decided life's too short to worry so much about my cholesterol."

He noted that the chuckle had faded away. It was followed by a nervous throat clearing and, "You know, Doc—"

"Don't worry," Westerfield assured him. "I'm his psychiatrist, remember? Even if he won't admit it. The story's not going any further than me. Psychiatry is the twentieth century equivalent of the confessional."

Another throat clearing from Hardcastle and then, "It's not that I think this should be kept secret, but if all the facts came out, then the authorities would be looking a lot harder at Paul. You met Paul?"

"Yesterday. He's a very interesting kid."

"Yeah, well, so far we've kinda kept him under the radar, which is where he needs to stay on this one, if you ask me."

"I can see your point on that," Westerfield mused. "But, hey, now I'm _his_ psychiatrist, too, so they won't get anything from me."

There might have been a brief, worried sigh. "It's not just the authorities," Hardcastle added.

"I know," Westerfield replied, in a more serious tone. "Mark told me some of the gorier details. But you can't be too worried about it. You're letting them both wander around on their own."

"Well, we figured the people who wanted it the worst are dead, and maybe that'll scare most of the rest off. And I saw the preliminary report—Paul's only mentioned in passing, and they even managed to misspell his name. And McCormick is sort of used to looking over his shoulder. He hasn't noticed anything so far."

"Sounds like there's hope. Between routine incompetence and lost notebooks, we may eventually be able to go back to worrying about our cholesterol, right?"

He thought he might have hit a nerve with the casual remark about the notebook. There was a moment of hesitation before the judge replied, with more than the required bonhomie, "In the meantime, how does Lawry's sound? Tomorrow, six?

"Perfect."

00000

They had a table off to the side. The salad had come and gone and then the serving cart. Hardcastle had made nothing but small talk. His demeanor would have passed muster if Westerfield hadn't known anything about recent events. But, as it was, there were small tell-tale signs, a tendency to distraction, an occasional, albeit subtle, nervous hitch in the conversation.

"Congratulations," the psychiatrist finally said, into one of those brief, silent lapses.

Hardcastle looked up abruptly from his food and cast him a quizzical glance.

"Well, you've managed to avoid an episode of anniversary syndrome by coming up with an entirely new crisis to worry about." Westerfield's smile had shades of seriousness to it.

"Anniversary?" The judge looked puzzled. "Oh, that."

"Yeah, _that_."

"It has been a year, hasn't it," Hardcastle nodded to himself. "Seems longer." He frowned. "I guess I'd forgotten," he said, with what Westerfield figured was unintentional irony.

"Well," the psychiatrist conceded, "you've been busy."

"You could say that."The judge was still frowning. "Though, you know I didn't really do much last weekend." Another long pause and then, "That was Mark and Paul going point on that mission. Thank God _somebody_ did."

"Two different approaches," Westerfield nodded.

"Well, theirs worked and mine didn't. And the worst thing was, I knew mine wasn't working, practically from the get-go, and still I stuck to it. And if I'd known what those two were up to, I would've given 'em hell." Hardcastle grimaced. "And they probably would have listened to me. The _system_," he added bitterly, "struck out this time."

"It does that from time to time."

"Hah. This would've been the _last_ time."

Westerfield nodded thoughtfully. Then after a moment he cocked his head. "So, is that what's bothering you?"

"Ah," the man looked momentarily startled, "Ah, no. That just kinda came out." His frown deepened. "Actually, it was what I did afterwards."

"Burning the notebook?"

"Oh, he told you about that, huh?" Hardcastle said with some chagrin. "He got a big kick out of it."

"Why do you think that?" Westerfield asked quietly.

The judge let out a heavy sigh. "He joked about it." There was a pause before he conceded, "I dunno, maybe he was trying to make me feel better."

"Sounds more likely."

"Yeah, and he did seem a little shook up. Joking is how he covers that."

"'Shook up' about destroying evidence?" Westerfield coaxed gently.

"Hell, no," the judge gave him a puzzled look, "not likely. It was more like . . . maybe because _I_ wasn't sure about it." Still the frown. "I'm usually pretty sure about things."

"Yes," the psychiatrist agreed, "I could see that." He leaned back in his seat a little, still studying the other man. Hardcastle had gone determinedly back to attacking his prime rib.

"Paul and I were talking about Jung yesterday," he added casually.

The judge paused in mid-bite, looking puzzled.

"Yeah, he's out of fashion," Westerfield conceded with a small smile, and if Hardcastle had been about to argue any such thing, he managed to keep it to himself, "but he had some interesting things to say about opposites." The doctor took a bite of his own meal.

"Such as?" Hardcastle finally asked.

"Well," Westerfield shrugged, Jung is all about completeness, about how whatever are a person's most apparent traits, their tendencies, they're not complete without the _opposite_. So, take a person who is extremely expedient. Someone who—"

"Gets the car."

"Ah?"

"It's his motto—'Get the Car'. It's right after 'Don't Get Caught', or maybe before. I'm not sure."

Westerfield gave him a long, hard stare. "Well," he finally said, "that's _interesting_ . . . He actually _said_ that? But, see, that's what I mean. Someone like that, someone who is obviously a little deficient in the protocol department, Jung would say he needs a counter-balance, an anchor."

"Well, I was a lousy anchor last weekend."

"A momentary lapse." Westerfield smiled kindly.

"Flagrant necessity?"

"And I doubt that you did any permanent damage."

"But I'll probably get kicked out of the International Order of Repo Men, once he sees I'm back on the straight and narrow."

"Okay," Westerfield's smile had gone a little puzzled, "now you've lost me."

Hardcastle explained about his impromptu initiation in the desert. The doctor listened intently.

"You've really broken out of jail, _twice_?" Westerfield looked surprised.

"Well, _he_ broke me out. It wasn't like I had a lot of choice," the judge protested. And then, after a moment more, "Though it probably was a good thing, both times."

The psychiatrist sat quietly for a moment. "'Get the Car'," he said, half to himself. "It's . . . perfect. I wish all my patients came with mottos." He shook his head and smiled. "So, anyway, last weekend, right up to the momentary lapse, you were being you, and following the rules."

Hardcastle nodded doubtfully. "And what the hell good did it do?"

Westerfield shrugged. "An anchor, a road-map, one fixed point in a changing universe. You name it. That's what he needs. Someone to tell him when he's gone too far—"

"But I didn't think he listened to me about stuff like that."

"He hears more than you realize, and you'll probably have to tell him less often as time goes by."

"Well, yeah," Hardcastle admitted. "I guess it must be 'cause Saturday he did something, right out of the blue—"

"The picks?"

The judge glanced up sharply. "Yeah, you know about that?"

Westerfield nodded.

"Did he say why?" Hardcastle's face betrayed his puzzlement, but this time he got no response. "Okay, go all hush-hush on me. I gotta figure that one out for myself, huh?"

"I'd be more interested in hearing why you turned him down."

"Oh, that's easy," the judge replied, but then there was a pause, as if it wasn't quite as easy as he'd thought. "You know," he finally began, a little hesitantly, "when he came home with that Olds, the Saturday before, and told me what he'd done, dammit, I was scared. It looked to me like he'd been set up, and he'd walked right into it, picks and all. And maybe I was a little angry, too, 'cause he does these fool things without a moment's thought." He shook his head. "So I made him ditch the burglary tools, leave 'em at home, when we went off to see Paul, to try and figure out what was going on.

"It made sense, too," he added, a little gruffly. "I mean, that's even one of _his_ rules—'Get rid of the evidence.' If he was being set up, then we might've been stopped, and him carrying the picks . . . So, that's why he didn't have 'em later on, when he needed them. It was a good thing Paul had a set." Hardcastle winced. "A kid with lock picks. _That_ kid with lock picks." Another slow shake of the head.

"Well," Westerfield mused, "he doesn't have them anymore."

"No," Hardcastle smiled thinly, "that's true." He paused for a moment, as though he was re-gathering his thoughts. Then he plunged ahead. "And so maybe I was feeling a little guilty, like I'd misjudged the situation the week before."

"Though, as you pointed out, what you had him do made perfect sense."

"My logic verses his intuition. But that time he was right."

"No guarantees it won't be the other way around next time," Westerfield pointed out.

"Yeah, I suppose, but he must've figured that out for himself, I mean, he wanted to give me the picks," Hardcastle said, looking less doubtful, but the air of puzzlement persisted. He said nothing more for a moment.

"That Jung guy," he was frowning when he finally spoke again, "that thing about opposites. I suppose it works both ways."

Westerfield couldn't help it, he felt his smile expanding. Insight was so much better than ideas externally imposed.

Hardcastle had caught the grin and met it with a chagrined smile of his own. "You were waiting for me to figure that out for myself, huh? What if I hadn't?"

"As much gentle prodding as necessary. I would have ordered dessert if I'd had to." Westerfield was still grinning.

"So, maybe somebody who like rules, who thinks they're really important—"

"Someone who's a little rigid," the doctor nodded, "maybe occasionally hidebound—"

"I wouldn't go _that_ far," Hardcastle protested. "Okay, well, maybe once in a while." He sighed. "All right, now and _then_—" He grimaced, and interrupted himself. "You know the rules really are important; without law, you've got anarchy."

"But order taken to extremes _is_ rigidity."

"So," Hardcastle sighed again, "maybe somebody like that needs someone who is, ah, _flexible_."

"A moving point in an unchanging universe." Westerfield grinned again. "Someone to tell you when you haven't gone far enough."

"But I don't listen to him much about stuff like that."

"Oh, I have a suspicion you do it more than you realize. You burned that notebook."

"That was—"

"Flagrant necessity? Yeah," Westerfield nodded, "literally. And the law doesn't crumble in cases like that. It merely bends."

"'The good of the people is the greatest law.'" The judge was staring down at the table, then he lifted his head. "I used to say that a lot. It's Cicero."

"I like it; has a nice ring."

"Hard as hell to apply though," Hardcastle added. "That's why we wind up with regular laws, books and books of them. And sometimes, even with all of that, the whole thing just falls apart."

"Like a week ago Saturday?"

"Yeah," the judge said glumly.

"Well, don't give up on it."

"Hah," Hardcastle looked up again sharply, "that's exactly what he told me."

"And what did you say?"

"Oh, something about it being the only system we've got . . . and then I torched the damn notebook."

"Sounds like a good compromise to me."

Hardcastle squinted at him a little. "No wonder McCormick likes to talk to you."

"Oh, don't worry; I tell him things he doesn't want to hear, too," Westerfield smiled. "You know, they have a nice raspberry trifle here."

The judge winced. "There's something else we've gotta talk about?"

"Not particularly," Westerfield smiled. "Sometimes a trifle is just a trifle."


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Rated: K+

Author's Note: Continuing on after the story_ Point of Transition_.

**Sessions—8**

It was Friday afternoon, late enough that even the receptionist had gone home. Westerfield was nearly to the bottom of a backlog of charts, when the phone rang. He might have ignored it, except for an element of intuition that told him it very well might be related to a call that had come a few hours earlier.

He picked it up, giving a greeting that was slightly less professional than his office staff would have approved of.

"Hi, Doc," the caller replied, sounding pensive. "I know it's Friday and all, but I don't suppose you'd be free for lunch tomorrow? I'm celebrating . . . I think."

Westerfield allowed himself a brief smile—that Mark didn't even feel he had to introduce himself, and that he was right, too. "Oh, yes," he said, "I hear congratulations are in order."

There was a momentary pause from the other end and then, "So you knew about it too, huh?"

"What? Oh, you mean before? No, just this afternoon. Milt called, wanted me to know he figured the firm owed me some complimentary legal work."

This got a quick, honest laugh and, "Yeah, well _that's_ true. Any time, I mean, if you don't mind having a lawyer who hasn't even had time to have his credentials framed." There was another pause, and then Mark's tone went back to serious again. "But if you're not free tomorrow—"

"Oh, that's no problem."

"Great." The relief was audible. "Well, Saturday . . . I could come up by your place; you got a spot around there you like?"

"Oh, here's okay. Eduardo's. They're never crowded on the weekends. I was planning on running by the office in the morning anyway. Paperwork. Noon?"

"Noon, yeah, perfect." And now, the arrangements made, the younger man seemed grateful, but in no mood to discuss anything further over the phone. The good-byes were short.

Westerfield sat for a moment after he'd hung up the phone. The call he'd fielded from Judge Hardcastle, not two hours earlier, had been outwardly more ebullient, but very pointedly also directed at a lunch date, though Hardcastle had been willing to settle for Monday. He'd also seemed surprised to be delivering the news of Mark's success with the bar exam, as though he more than half-expected that McCormick would have beaten him to the punch.

_But people usually don't call their shrink with good news._

And then his plans for the law clinic, just a quick, sketchy outline, but very obviously _his_ plans, though the judge had taken pains to use the pronoun 'we' almost religiously. Lots of room for speculation there, but Westerfield had learned not to reason in advance of the facts.

He stretched and sighed. He pushed the pile of charts to the side, plenty of time to deal with those tomorrow.

00000

Mark met him on the sidewalk outside the restaurant promptly at noon the next day. His smile was as pensive as the tone had been the day before. He didn't look like a man who had just arrived, by the oddest of possible routes, at the beginning of a career in the law.

His greeting was warm enough, though, and he looked as if he felt guilty about not being as happy as he ought to be. He ushered Westerfield before him, holding the door as they stepped into the cool and dim interior. As expected, the place was half-deserted, the professional crowd all off for the weekend.

They'd exchanged nothing but a few words before they were shown to a table, and even after that Mark seemed to be holding everything back, focusing unnecessarily on the menu before him.

Westerfield looked up from his own and studied the man before him. He wagered a guess and then acted on it. "Not quite what you expected, I'd say."

Mark lifted his head and stared at him, as if he'd had his mind read and found it disconcerting. Westerfield had a notion that he'd made a tactical error. It was a full moment more before the man responded, and then it was a half-grumble.

"Seems like Hardcase isn't the only one who knows me better than I know myself."

"'Hardcase'?"

"Hardcase Hardcastle." Mark waved it off with a hand. "Never heard that one, huh? I think more people call him that than 'Milt'."

"Well," Westerfield shrugged lightly, "it suits him."

"Yeah," Mark managed a rueful grin, "and I don't mean much by it. Really. Sorry it came out sounding . . ."

"Pissed off?"

Mark winced. "That bad?"

Another shrug.

"Okay, I guess it did." McCormick sighed. He returned to studying the menu with more attention than it required. This time Westerfield bided in silence as well.

Mark cracked first. He spoke without lifting his eyes from the page. "You talked to him. Did he tell you what happened?"

"Only that you'd passed the bar."

"Not the rest, huh?"

"Well, he mentioned the law clinic you two are setting up." Westerfield paused for a moment while Mark slowly brought his gaze up.

"Us?" He shook his head. "Not exactly. _Him_. He did the whole thing. He set it _all_ up."

"You've talked about it," Westerfield said consideringly. "I thought you'd planned on that. Being partners, I mean, once you were out of law school."

"Yeah." Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's what makes it so weird. I wanted it. I know I did. I _still_ do."

"But . . .?"

"He went and set it all up. The office. _Everything._ I didn't have a clue. I didn't even think I'd passed the damn test."

"That's a lot of confidence."

"Well, I suppose. I dunno what he would have done if I hadn't passed." Mark frowned.

"Maybe his expectations were realistic. After all, he's been around the whole time you've been in law school."

Mark let out another sigh. "Yeah, but see, so was I. That's what I mean. He knew better than I did."

"Sometimes the perspective is better from the outside."

He got a glum nod of acceptance in return. Clearly there was something else besides self-awareness that was at issue here. Westerfield traced the conversation back a few steps.

"The surprise . . . ?" He let that trail off at the end, not wanting to do anymore unwelcome mind-reading.

This time the reaction was more like chagrin. "Sorry," Mark said again. "_Really_. I didn't mean to drag you out to have somebody to bitch to." He was looking a little off to the right, as though even eye contact had become too embarrassing. "And I have no reason to complain. _None_. The man put me through law school. Now he wants me to be the _director_ of the damn clinic." He was shaking his head in slow disbelief.

"But it would have been nice, I suppose, to be asked," Westerfield said after a moment of thoughtful silence.

Mark shot him another look. "He did ask me."

"Sort of. A little after the fact, it sounds like."

The younger man winced again, as though the admission was almost painful. "Yeah," he finally said. "It kind of felt that way." He looked away again. "Thing is, I would've said yes."

"But it makes a difference, that you didn't feel like you had a choice?"

"Maybe that," McCormick answered slowly. Then something else came out, more in a rush—"Did he think I wouldn't? Did he feel like he had to _maneuver_ me into it? Like I'd cut and run the first chance I got?"

He shook his head. "Anyway, it's too much, you know. I'm fresh out of law school. He's got thirty years of legal experience. _He _should be directing the place. I'm _Tonto_ for crissake."

"You were hoping he'd be in charge just a little bit longer?"

Mark seemed to hesitate, and then nodded silently.

"But he'll still be there, right?"

"Oh, yeah." Mark hesitated again and then added, "He says he's some kind of emeritus something or another. That's the way he put it." His frowned deepened. "That's wrong. That makes it sound like he's retiring."

"Well," Westerfield smiled, "he already did that once, and it turned out for the best, didn't it? What makes you think this won't, too?"

"I dunno," Mark pinched the bridge of his nose again, sliding back into sullen. "I know things have to change. I've been the one saying that all along . . ."

"But?"

"But," Mark sighed slowly, "maybe I felt like I'd finally gotten everything right."

"'If it ain't broke, don't fix it?'"

"Yeah, something like that," McCormick muttered.

Westerfield smiled. "Life is a process, not an object. A fly perfectly preserved in amber is a dead fly."

Mark quirked his own crooked smile. "That's a good one. It'd make a nice bumper sticker."

"Might have some made up. It's pretty pithy," the psychiatrist grinned.

Mark's own smile had become a little rigid, then it faded away. He dropped his gaze to the menu again, though there was very little pretense left.

"So," he finally said, "what the hell is the matter with me? I've got what I wanted. I got it handed to me on a silver platter, and instead of being happy about it I feel . . ."

Westerfield waited patiently for the rest, until it became apparent that there wasn't going to be anymore. "Multiple choice or essay?"

"Huh?"

"I prefer working with the open-ended essay format myself. It's usually more revealing. But I can give you options if you need them." Westerfield was still smiling. "You feel worried, frightened," he paused for a moment and then added, "angry?"

This time the mind-reading act went over a little smoother. Mark seemed resigned to being understood. He gave the list a slow nod and said, almost quietly, "All of the above. And I understand all of it except the anger. That's just wrong. I . . ." Mark appeared to bite the rest back, as though he'd been on the verge of a confession.

He started again, a little less intensely. "He only has my best interests at heart. He's done a helluva lot for me. I'll never be able to pay him back. And now this on top of it."

Westerfield gave him a studied look and then finally said, "What makes you think all the debt is on one side?"

"He said it, way back when. I'm an expensive hobby."

"And you call him 'Hardcase Hardcastle'. Do either of you mean it?"

Mark looked momentarily startled, then he said, "Well, yeah, sometimes. He can be a real donkey. A _mule_ even."

"Okay," Westerfield sighed, "so he's kept you around for, what, seven years is it? And you've put up with him. Why?"

McCormick blinked once but then started up as though the answer was obvious. "Because we're friends. I mean, it seems that way."

"Okay, _friends_. Fine. And friendship isn't like a bank; you're not supposed to keep ledgers." He got a small conceding nod from the younger man and built on that. "When I first met you two—" He saw Mark shudder slightly, as though even after two and a half years, the recollection of the judge's amnesia was still sharply painful. Westerfield paused and drew a breath. "Yeah. That was him without any awareness of your friendship."

"Sometimes I think it was harder on me than it was on him."

"I doubt that," Westerfield said firmly. "He just shows fear in a different way."

Mark shrugged. "Yeah, there's that."

"And at the very least, when he got his memory back he was terrified."

"Of what? He was better, then."

"Of losing you. It was touch and go for a while. And then, when he knew you were going to pull through, then it was the fear that he'd lost you in a different way."

Mark considered this for a moment, a shadow on his face. "I stood by him. You know that. Why would he think—?"

"Why do you think you've done so little for him that you are hopelessly in his debt?"

"Because . . ." Mark paused, frowned, then started up again, "because I'm a total idiot. I'm just as irrational about us being friends as he is." His frown turned into a rueful smile. "That's about right, isn't it?"

"There are no 'right' answers in my line of work," Westerfield grinned. "But I'll give you some points on that one."

"And the whole thing about him not giving me a choice about the directorship?"

"An interesting conundrum, I'll admit. If someone can force you to be in charge, are you really in charge?"

Mark's own grin was still rueful. "Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some get shafted with it."

"I don't think that's quite how Shakespeare put it."

"Yeah, but that's what he meant." McCormick sighed. "Okay, well, if he thinks he can get out from under the responsibility with this 'emeritus' thing, he's in for a surprise. Everybody's _still_ gonna think he's in charge."

"No doubt, some may, for a while. But eventually . . ."

McCormick's expression had gone a little more troubled again.

"I mean, if you're in it for the long haul . . ."

"I was Tonto when he wanted one. I'll be a director if that's what he wants."

Westerfield shook his head. "Two points off."

"I thought there were no wrong answers?" Mark said with an indignant look.

"I lied. A decision that important can't be made solely to satisfy someone else. If you do it for that reason, you'll wind up satisfying no one. Do you _want_ what he's offering you?"

Mark had gone almost rigid again. He appeared to be holding his breath for a moment, as though the words, once spoken, couldn't be reclaimed.

"_Yes_," he finally said. "I want it."

"Then it doesn't matter if you chose then," Westerfield said. "You chose _now_."

McCormick sat back a little, considering this. He finally gave it a nod. Then he quirked a half smile and said, "You seeing him Monday?"

Westerfield looked quizzical for a moment before he nodded. "Now who's reading minds?" he asked mildly.

"Well," the younger man shrugged, "it's not some big hairy secret. You told me he'd called. He hasn't gone as far as trying to set up an appointment for _me_," Mark grinned.

The psychiatrist shook his head and smiled. 'Appointment' was not usually in the vocabulary. There was a brief twinge of pleasure at that breakthrough.

Mark's grin had gone a little softer. "You tell him something for me, will you?"

The puzzlement was back. "You won't see him before then?"

"Yeah, I'll see him," Mark conceded, "and we'll talk about the Dodgers, and how long has it been since I checked the pH on the pool, and whether it's worth it to drive all the way up to Dinkey Creek to catch a couple of trout."

"Not the important stuff, huh?"

"Whaddaya mean? The Dodgers _are_ important . . .but this is something different." He looked nervous for a moment.

"Something you can't tell him yourself?"

Mark shrugged. "It might be hard to bring it up, you know, in between the trout and the baseball and the pool." He stared down at the table, as though he were trying to figure out how to phrase the next bit. He finally spoke. "Just tell him he doesn't have to worry. I'm in it for the long haul. He can trust me on that."

"I don't really think anyone needs to tell him that."

"Tell him anyway," Mark sounded a little urgent. "I want him to know . . . but don't tell him I told you to tell him." Mark sat back again, searching the older man's face.

"So, how am I supposed to know?"

"Tell him you've got radar. Tell him you read my mind. He'll get that," Mark smiled. "He does it all the time himself."


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Rated: K+

Author's Note: Following on after #8, the aftermath of _Point of Transition._ Oh, and there are brief references to _Hoops_ and _A Worden Christmas,_ for those who are puzzled.

**Sessions—9 **

"I thought you might be tired of Italian," Hardcastle smiled and, at the upward arc of Westerfield's right eyebrow, he added, with a knowing nod, "McCormick came home with tomato sauce on his tie Saturday."

"That's a lot of deductive reasoning from one stain."

"Practice." The judge shrugged. "I'd been kind of wondering how soon he'd call you."

"You beat him by two hours Friday afternoon, I believe," Westerfield looked at the other man steadily. "But he asked for the earlier appointment." He was watching. There was no flinch. He supposed it was all right as long as it was McCormick he was talking about, rather than the judge himself.

Either that, or an overriding sense of worry had the man distracted. Westerfield jerked one thumb over his shoulder. "We could walk down by the park. I'm kind of in the mood for a hot dog." Somehow he thought this might be one conversation better conducted side-by-side rather than face-to-face.

Hardcastle gave that a quick nod, as though he appreciated the motives immediately. He settled into a strolling walk, chin down and hands in his pocket.

"Lunch went okay Saturday?" the judge asked, very tentatively after a moment or two of silence. "I mean . . ." he backed off, almost seeming embarrassed. He'd gotten the semi-stern refusal to share information enough times; it appeared he was expecting it again.

"How's he been?" Westerfield tried to make it sound like a friend asking, not a psychiatrist.

Hardcastle stopped in his tracks, and half-turned to face him, with a look of surprise on his face. "_You_ talked to him Saturday. What do you think?"

"I meant _since_ then . . . and maybe before, too." Westerfield smiled gently.

From Hardcastle there was a sigh. "Okay . . . well, maybe he was a little more, I dunno . . . _settled_, yesterday. Hard to say. At least he wasn't avoiding me like he was on Friday." He paused, as though he'd been about to ask him straight out what he'd said to change things, and caught himself at the last moment. He finally started up again, a more neutral statement. "It's been a while since you've seen him, I guess."

Westerfield cocked his head. "Yeah, over a year, I think. Was I wrong in assuming that was a good sign?"

They'd continued on in their walk. The judge said nothing for a moment, then cleared his throat and stuffed his hands a little deeper in his jacket pockets. "It's been tough for him the last year or so, ya know. There are a lot of people who look kinda cross-eyed at a guy with his background making a run at the bar. It took some doing. A lot of hearings. Paperwork."

"All successful."

"Yeah, in the end. But, see, that's what I thought was the problem at first. He was worrying about it all the time. Then we got past that."

"But he didn't stop worrying, eh?"

Hardcastle shook his head. "No, if anything, that last semester of law school it got worse. Took me a while to figure that one out. I mean, besides the pre-bar jitters. Everybody gets those."

Westerfield nodded.

"Nah, this was more like being afraid of what would happen if he _did_ succeed. You know, the responsibility. He takes that pretty seriously, maybe because he knows the consequences."

"Makes sense."

"And I talked to him about it."

Westerfield tried to control the look of surprise on his face, but Hardcastle had already glanced to the side and caught it. He smiled. "I do talk to him, and it's not _always_ about the Dodgers." The smile briefly flashed into a grin, and then subsided. "So . . . okay, he didn't exactly lighten up. Well, maybe he did a little, when we went back to Arkansas last Christmas—that's where I'm from originally, Arkansas—but then we got back, and he was done with school, and the bar was coming up and you woulda thought he didn't have a snowball's chance in hell."

The judge finally paused to take a breath and then he added, in a puzzled tone, "I dunno where he got that idea. I think he knew more going _in _to law school than some people know coming out."

"Practical experience has to count for something," Westerfield nodded encouragingly.

"You're damn right, not to mention he's a pretty quick study. He had to be; I didn't cut him much slack." The judge said this with a note of personal pride. Then that smile faded, too. "But I figured, what the hell, he'd get through the bar exam, and he'd get the results and then . . . well, _then _everything would be hunky-dory, ya know?"

"And that was last Thursday."

"Yeah, we had a little celebration and all. I took him down to Barney's Beanery, and he opened the envelope."

"That was a surprise, too?" Westerfield asked quietly.

"Well . . . yeah."

"I don't suppose you thought of what might have happened if the results weren't what you'd been expecting."

Hardcastle gave him a brief, blank look, followed by a quick shake of the head. "Not you, too? No, he had that exam nailed. I've never seen anyone so ready."

"Okay," Westerfield sighed. "I grant you that. You're the expert," he added, leaving up in the air exactly which area of familiarity covered this situation. "And then, after that?"

"Well, we polished off a bottle of champagne, and I ran him by the new office."

"Just like that?"

"Yeah, it was supposed to be a surprise." There was at least a hint of rueful chagrin in the judge's expression. "Okay," he admitted, "maybe I didn't want to listen to anymore of that 'this is never going to work' hooey. I was tired of arguing with him about it. You know he was starting to look for work as a paralegal. It was like he figured I was going to kick him out if he didn't start paying rent or something. Where does he _get_ these ideas?"

Westerfield didn't have to give this much consideration before he answered, "From the sub-basement—the department of early childhood rejection. Once it's down there, it never really goes away."

Hardcastle frowned. "I suppose." He let that hang there for a moment, still layered with some disbelief. The he took in another slow breath and let it out before starting up again.

"Well, that night, when I took him over to the office, he seemed okay about it, maybe a little, I dunno . . ."

"Shocked?"

"Surprised," the judge corrected abruptly.

"Well, it was meant to be a surprise; that's what you said, right?"

"Yeah." The rueful smile was back. "But we _had_ talked about it, honest. I thought it was what he wanted." A moment of strained silence and then, "I thought he'd be _happy_."

"You think he's not?"

"Yeah, well, the next day, Friday, we were supposed to go back over there, get some stuff settled. But he seemed sort of . . . _distant_."

"'Distant'?"

"As in maybe he thought he'd made a bad decision, that kind of distant. You know, avoiding me."

"Maybe 'distant', as in needing some space?"

He saw the judge blanch, as though he hadn't wanted to hear that version out loud. Hardcastle swallowed once but didn't answer.

"Everyone needs it sooner or later," Westerfield pointed out. "Even close relationships have boundaries. A person can step away from something without intending to leave."

Hardcastle appeared to be taking this in. He nodded once.

"And you have to admit, he's got a lot to deal with right now. He told me about the directorship."

"_That_," Hardcastle huffed. "Ya know it's really just a start-up operation. A storefront office, that's all."

"With a well-known ex-judge on the staff? I doubt it's going to stay small for long," Westerfield speculated. "So, why the role-reversal?"

"Well," Hardcastle frowned again, as though he hadn't planned on putting it into words, "maybe it's time for him to stop thinking of himself as Tonto."

"Maybe that scares him."

Hardcastle looked indignant. "_See_, that's what I mean. He's gonna be a better lawyer than I was. I mean, I was a good enough judge, but _lawyering_, it's not just knowing the law, you've got to be good with people. I dunno, it's a little bit of a con job sometimes." He glanced aside in almost-embarrassment, as though he'd hated to admit it. "You know he's got that, right? Not that I think he'll abuse it," he amended hastily, "but damned if he doesn't have it."

"Well, that's good."

"What?" Hardcastle asked, seeming to sense there was more to the comment than mere agreement.

"Oh, that you see him as different—not a carbon copy."

Hardcastle stood in stunned silence for a moment, as though the thought of similarity had never occurred to him. He finally found some words. "We aren't at _all_ alike."

Westerfield carefully suppressed a smile.

Smile or no, the other man caught the whiff of disbelief. He hmmphed. "Come on, Doc, just because we're both lawyers . . ." There was a hint of a smile at the end of this, as though being able to make that off-hand comment was a source of quiet pleasure.

"It's good, like I said. And I think the directorship was a good idea, too, even if it does take a little time for you both to adjust to it."

Hardcastle looked puzzled. "'Both'? It was _my_ idea." Then the expression only deepened as the silence spun out, with Westerfield giving him a pointed look.

"Ah," the judge finally said. "I think I get it."

"You're pretty quick on the uptake for an old 'emeritus' lawyer."

"But he never would have asked for it. He would have just gone along, being Tonto. He needed a little nudge."

"It was more like a kick in the pants, the way you did it," Westerfield smiled. "No wonder you thought you needed to get him liquored up first."

"It was only one bottle of champagne and a Corona." Hardcastle grinned. "And don't worry; I'll be there. I wasn't going to make him fly solo—not right at the start."

"But, eventually."

After a quiet couple of seconds, Hardcastle finally said, "Eventually we all have to. And he'll want to be on his own, sooner or later." There was the faintest of grimaces there.

"Have you talked to him? I mean, about that?"

A quick negative shake of the head.

"You should, I think. You might be surprised."

"Anyway," Hardcastle raised his eyes, "he thought he wanted it, the directorship I mean. I'm pretty sure he did. Maybe now he's having second thoughts. Gratitude can only go so far. It's a lousy leash."

"You didn't want a leash, though, did you?"

"Nah," Hardcastle shook his head, "well, maybe at the very beginning, just to keep him from running off and trying to get himself killed. Lord knows, it didn't always work, even for that. No," another quick negative shake, "no leash. He's been free for a long time, even if he didn't realize it."

"What makes you think he didn't?"

"Well, he must by _now_." The judge shrugged his shoulders. "He's been out of school for six months now."

"And you think that was all that held him, before that? His parole, and then the tuition?"

"No," Hardcastle blinked in surprise. "Nah, neither of them. I practically had to take him by the scruff of the neck and shake him before he'd even admit his parole was up. And he was in law school almost a whole semester before I caught on to that. I think he only moved out then because he was worried that I'd think he was taking advantage of me."

"Doesn't sound like a guy who was trying to cut and run."

"No, never that," the judge agreed. "And the tuition was just an excuse I made up for him to stay. But, _now_ . . ."

"Now you move on," Westerfield prompted gently. "But I don't think that necessarily means moving much apart."

There was another moment of silence. Hardcastle's chin dropped down slowly, and then he cast a slow sideward glance at the other man. "Maybe McCormick wasn't the only one who needed a nudge. Maybe I thought I needed one, too. If I didn't let go some, he'd have to pull away."

"You do exert a pretty strong gravitational field," Westerfield admitted. "Your friend the police lieutenant said something about that."

"You mean I'm overbearing and obnoxious sometimes? Hah, Harper ignores me when I get like that. So does McCormick, mostly."

"And when the relative position of things change, there's bound to be some wobble before there's a new equilibrium." Westerfield smiled as he carried the analogy forward.

Then he broke off and added, almost without realizing he was going to, "But he is in it for the long haul." He took a breath; this wasn't psychiatric speculation anymore and he had a notion that, even if not for the wording, his tone would give that away.

He saw that he was right. Hardcastle had stopped walking again, his head turned again and cocked. The smile that appeared was very genuine and certain. "He told you to say that, huh?"

Westerfield's shrug was minimally embarrassed.

"I told you he was persuasive." Hardcastle grinned. "Well, he could have told me himself," he huffed gently. "Though I guess I'd already figured it out . . . you tell him—"

"Uh-uh," Westerfield shook his head. "None of that. You can tell him yourself, whatever it is. You'll just have to squeeze it into the seventh-inning stretch. I'm not a go-between; I'm just the guy you have lunch with.

"Look," he smiled, pointing to the corner ahead, "hotdogs."


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's note: **This takes place during and after the story 'The Martingale'. Thanks, Owl and Cheri, for ongoing beta-support.

**Sessions**—Chapter 10

As soon as the midnight phone call from Mark McCormick ended, Phil Westerfield wished he'd asked a lot more questions. He generally hated reasoning in the absence of the facts, though it was often unavoidable in his line of trade, but what little he had heard this time was enough to set off claxons of alarming speculation.

The problem, he quickly decided, was that the man he had been talking to had a tendency to understate risks—probably as a consequences of over-exposure—and a request for counsel _during_ one of his escapades was virtually unprecedented. Westerfield had a brief moment of empathy for Milton Hardcastle, and was glad that he, himself, generally got told about these things after the fact, when it was obvious that there had been survivors.

He got up, ran his fingers through his hair, put on his slippers and robe, and went to the garage, where the newspapers of the previous few weeks were stacked. He riffled through them, pulled off the ones from the last few days, and carried them back into the kitchen.

He made coffee, reviewed the facts such as they were—not much to go on—drank coffee, stared out the window into the darkness, did the math, calculated Paul's current age at nineteen, and waited for another phone call.

None came. Eventually, still frowning over the possibilities that would make Mark drag a potentially unstable kid down to a definitely unstable Caribbean country, the psychiatrist trudged back to bed.

00000

The second call came four days later. It still had the distant, delayed quality of an international call, but the caller sounded less anxious.

"How is everything?" was Westerfield's first question, and it was spoken with an inflection that made it obviously more than a social inquiry. There'd been an absence of any further newspaper information.

"Better, lots." Less anxious, yes, but, from the pitch and tone of his voice, perhaps Mark was still being slightly secretive. "I'm sorry I didn't call you back sooner. We were, um, busy."

"I'll bet," Westerfield replied dryly, and then, "Paul?"

"Much better. I think you were right." There might have been a note of guilt to his relief, hard to say over the phone.

"And San Roque?"

"We're not there anymore." This time the relief was evident and unadulterated. "We're in San Rio, staying with a friend. But, yeah, San Roque is doing better, too, I think. You might read about it in the paper tomorrow."

"Your name won't be in the article, I presume."

There was a moment of silence, as though the other man was trying to decide the odds of that. McCormick finally said, in what sounded like a sudden hopeful realization, "Not likely, but I wasn't using my real name, anyway." Then another pause, and in a more sober tone, "But sorry about waking you up in the middle of the night and—"

"You'll call me when you get back, right?"

Yet another moment of silence, as if that hadn't been what McCormick had been intending to say at all. Then there was a "Well . . ." that trailed off unfinished.

Westerfield waited just briefly, before finally resorting to a gentle prod. "We can get together . . . lunch maybe."

That got him a quick but nervous laugh, and then Mark said, only slightly less reluctant, "Maybe."

00000

Two more days passed. Tuesday's paper mentioned, in very few column inches, that the Caribbean nation of San Roque had undergone yet another regime change—the second in as many weeks—a perfunctory article about an apparently perfunctory revolution. Wednesday afternoon brought another call, but this one wasn't from Mark.

"Paul Hanley," the receptionist said on the interoffice line.

Westerfield frowned, wondered what he was supposed to know, and decided the best solution was, as usual, to let the patient take the lead. He kept his greeting unsurprised, but also unconcerned.

Paul sounded apologetic. "Didn't know if you'd remember me."

"Well—"

"Okay," Paul admitted quickly, "maybe I'm on the short list, weirdness-wise." Westerfield didn't get a chance to comment on that before the younger man plowed ahead. "Listen, does Mark still see you?"

"We're friends; we talk," Westerfield answered in perfect honesty.

"Good. Look," Paul said, then he hesitated a moment, as if proceeding with caution, but what followed still came out in a rush, "I think I gave him a scare the other day." He paused again, as if half-hoping that he wouldn't have to tell the story.

Westerfield didn't comment. He preferred hearing the Hanley version.

There was a sigh of resignation and then, less rushed, more uncertain, "See, I had this little episode . . ."

"What was it like?"

More hesitance, and then, "I was doing something, very intently, and I lost track of time."

Westerfield accepted that somewhat vague description and asked, "How were you afterwards?"

"Fine," Paul said, abruptly insistent. "Well, maybe a little shook-up," he admitted. "But I think he was worse. I think I scared him."

"Mark doesn't scare too easy."

"Not about some things," Paul replied, "but sometimes he feels responsible . . . You know, I'm not a kid anymore."

Westerfield could almost hear the frown of self-examination from a guy who could probably bring some pretty high-intensity analysis down on almost any problem but himself.

"Maybe I never was. I dunno. Anyway, I'm fine. I tried to tell him that but I'm not sure if he believed me. And even if I hadn't been fine, it wouldn't have been _his _fault. People don't make other people go crazy."

"But stress—"

"It wasn't the stress." Paul halted again, as if he didn't want to be forced into describing the exact circumstances. "Look, it was more like, I dunno, a flashback. When I finally do go crazy, it won't be because somebody asked me to memorize something. Sheesh, it wasn't rocket science. _Hell_, rocket science isn't even rocket science."

"_Emotional_ stress," Westerfield said persistently.

"Okay, well, maybe some of that. But I've got to learn to deal with that, right?"

"Maybe not in a casino running some kind of high-stakes scam," Westerfield suggested gently.

"So, he _did_ talk to you, huh?"

"Well . . . he was concerned."

"Scared."

"Some. And, yes, he felt responsible for putting you in that position."

"I volunteered. He helped me get Mlotkowski out of a jam once. I owed him. I almost got him killed that time."

"You felt responsible for that, eh?"

A moment of profound silence from the other end and then, "I guess I shoulda seen that one coming."

"It's not rocket science."

"Nope, scarier than rocket science." Paul sighed again. "Listen, when you see him, tell him I'm okay, huh? Maybe he'll believe you."

"As long as I'm not lying," Westerfield said. "You _are_ all right?"

"So far," Paul said with a very slight emphasis that might have been more habit than real worry. "It was good for me, I think. Sort of a test."

"'That which does not kill us, makes us strong'?"

"Yeah, well, at least it's one less thing to worry about, ya know? Something I can scratch off the list."

"How long a list is it?"

"Two pieces of legal-sized paper, taped together," Paul shot back, and then, "just kidding. I've never written them down. Should I? Might be more. All boils down to the same thing, though."

"Usually does—loss of self," Westerfield mused. "Thank God not everyone is that good at reduction or I'd be out of a job."

Paul laughed lightly. "You could always take up card-counting. Very straightforward. Dull, though."

"Not rocket science, eh?"

"Not hardly," Paul said with a humorously bored sigh and then suddenly more intent again, "Talk to him, okay?"

00000

After he'd hung up, Westerfield briefly contemplated initiating some contact of his own. It wasn't the usual pattern, and might spark some comment, but under the circumstances he thought it might be a good idea. He hadn't gotten any further along in the direction of reluctant action, when his receptionist announced another call.

"Milton Hardcastle. He says it can wait, if you're busy."

"No, transfer it in." This time he didn't have to feign lack of information. It was genuine frustrated curiosity that prompted him to ask it, straight off, even before a more standard greeting.

"What the hell happened down there last week?"

Hardcastle seemed a bit taken aback. "Oh," he replied, after a half-second's pause. "You talked to Mark already?" Then, in a little more puzzlement, "He didn't explain it to you?"

"Not yet. When he called from San Roque he didn't want to say too much—"

"That makes sense."

"And when he called from San Rio—"

"Yeah, I thought maybe that was you I heard him on the phone with."

"Yeah, well, he wanted to apologize for calling me the first time. He said everything was fine."

"'Fine', huh?" There was a slight grunt of disbelief following that. "Well, better than they were, I suppose. Look," he said, dropping his voice a little in conspiracy, "I'll stay home from the office tomorrow and then he won't have to worry me when he calls you up and offers to take you to lunch. That sound like a plan?"

Westerfield thought about it for a moment and replied dubiously, "If he calls." And then, "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, sure," the judge replied, with a shade too much heartiness to be fully believable.

"Okay, and when do _you_ want to get together?"

"Him first."

"That bad, huh?"

00000

Westerfield firmly believed that things coming in threes were a manifestation of the human need to impose order on a random universe, but he was still expecting one more phone call that afternoon. He even hung around the office for a few minutes after the end of his four-fifteen appointment, though he knew Mark had his home number.

And he felt a certain satisfaction when it rang, just few minutes after five.

"Hi, Doc?"

"Ah—"

"Lt. Harper, Frank."

"_Ah_, yes. Lieutenant. What can I—?"

"Sorry to bother you." He seemed more than sorry. He seemed hesitant.

"Is this about the Cartori case?" Westerfield asked politely, all the while wondering if there wasn't really something to that 'threes' adage after all.

Somehow what came out next didn't surprise him in the least. "No, not Cartori. That's all still getting sorted out. Takes a lot longer than most people realize." The lieutenant seemed momentarily relieved to have a different topic of conversation. That ran out of steam and he paused again, then pushed forward.

"Have you talked to Mark McCormick lately?"

Westerfield said, "Why?"

It seemed like a reasonable question; he phrased it in a deliberately low-key, non-challenging way. Harper seemed to be thinking about how he'd answer.

"He's not in any trouble, is he?" The psychiatrist asked. It had suddenly occurred to him that no one had really said he wasn't, maybe because the condition was so chronically intermittent that it simply didn't strike any of his friends as worthy of comment.

To his relief this got a quick grunt of a laugh from the lieutenant, followed by, "No, 'course not," though where the last part had come from, Westerfield had no idea.

"But if you'd asked me _last_ week . . ." It trailed off into an intriguing cloud of mystery.

"You were in San Roque, too?" the doc asked with sudden insight.

"So, you did talk to him. That's good." Harper sounded relieved. "I just wanted to make sure he's talking to _somebody_. I thought this one might be tough . . . for Milt, for them to discuss. You know what I mean?"

"No," Westerfield said very sincerely, "I have no idea."

"Oh. Ah . . ." The lieutenant paused. "Well, maybe you should ask him about it. Maybe Milt, too. He looked like hell when Mark finally got him out."

"Out of where?"

"Roca Triste, a dungeon. The real thing. One guy died down there, before we could get to them. Milt could barely walk."

"What day was that?"

The lieutenant didn't answer right away. Maybe he'd lost track. He finally said. "Monday, yeah . . . seems longer."

"Two days?" Westerfield frowned. "He said he might stay home from work tomorrow."

"Mark?"

"No, Milt."

"Oh, good." Harper seemed distracted, relieved, and slightly worried all at the same time.

"Are _you_ okay?" Westerfield asked, still trying to get his bearings.

"Me?" Now surprise predominated. "Yeah. Casino scams, gun-running, small-scale revolutions, all in a day's work . . . I'm glad _I_ wasn't in charge."

"Mark was?"

"Calling all the shots. It was . . . strange, like he was a different person. Single-minded. I saw him sitting at Milt's desk the day before we left for San Roque. It was like he belonged there."

"Sounds like he rose to the occasion."

"He's lucky the occasion didn't call for anything more serious—I think he would've risen to that, too."

Westerfield thought that one over for a moment, then heard Harper clear his throat a little nervously. It seemed out of character, from what he had seen of the man.

"Just talk to him, will ya?" the lieutenant said, quietly insistent.

And this time Westerfield heard himself answer, with no conscious forethought, "Yes, I will."

He said good-bye. He hung up. He sat there for a moment, looking at the clock and no longer feeling very patient. He reached for the Rolodex and flipped through the cards to the beginning of the 'M's. There were two numbers, the original one neatly crossed out, and a second, newer one, that dated since the wedding a few months back.

He ran the odds, all things considered, including the new information that Milt was only two days back on his feet, and then dialed the original number. It rang only twice before it was picked up. A pleasant female voice answered with a simple 'hello?'

She recognized his name, and he knew her from one meeting—the receiving line and a few minutes of pleasant conversation at the wedding reception. She didn't delay him long.

"Mark's right here. Hold on."

He heard her call out to him, interestingly not offering any information about who was on the line, not even when she was asked. He came to the phone anyway, though his 'Hello?" sounded knowing and a little anxious.

"Thought you might be back," Westerfield said.

"Ah, yeah," the response was less than cheerful, maybe slightly guilty. "Just today," he offered in defense.

"Thought you might have tried to reach me."

"I was _going_ to."

"You free tomorrow?" he nudged slightly, ignoring the younger man's defensive tone.

There was silence from the other end, and then, "First day back and all, might be kinda tied up."

Westerfield thought fast, then came up with a calm, nearly-drawled, "Yeah, that's always how it is. When you _need_ to talk to your lawyer . . ."

More silence, and then guilt apparently overriding disbelief, "Oh . . . I didn't realize—Well," he interrupted himself, "I suppose there's always lunch."

"Perfect. I'll pick you up. Noon?"

"Noon," Mark repeated, and then, in an effort at civility, burdened down by an obvious load of reluctance, he even added a mildly sullen, "Great."

The good-byes were brief and after he'd hung up Westerfield sat back, feeling only the slightest twinge of guilt over the minor subterfuge. A little moral flexibility, he'd discovered, was essential when working with certain patients.


	11. Chapter 11

**Sessions**—Chapter 11

Despite the audible reluctance of the day before, Mark McCormick was ready promptly at noon the next day. Westerfield saw him standing by the desk in the very unornate waiting area of the store-front law office on Pico Street. He was bent slightly in close discussion with a practical-looking woman who was apparently both receptionist and secretary.

He glanced up at the opening of the door. A ghost of a smile flashed across an underlying look of concern and, in place of a greeting, he said, "It's about Cartori, huh?" and then, "Nobody associated with either of them is allowed to contact you. Not so much as a phone call. If they try it, you call me, day or night." Then he frowned suddenly. "And if you can't reach me, then Frank Harper." The frown had gone slightly apologetic. "You weren't trying to reach me since, um, Friday, were you?"

Westerfield shook his head, still holding the door open. Mark looked puzzled, then more worried. He gave the woman at the desk one last nod and said, "Won't be too long."

"Nothing to hurry back for." She smiled and made a slight shooing motion.

Westerfield thought he might have seen a quick grimace, not there quite long enough for him to be certain. By the time they were out on the sidewalk it was pure worry again.

"Not one of the Cartoris' lawyers, huh? Yeah, I kinda thought they might leave the whole thing about the medical notes alone. I was _hoping_ they would. No reason to bring up something that would be a motive for him to send a hit man after you." He paused, and then said, "Somebody from the DA's office? Some of those guys aren't too keen on me and Hardcastle."

Westerfield shook his head again. They were at the curb. Mark looked like he was entertaining second thoughts about getting in the car.

"I'm in the mood for Chinese," the doc said casually. "Know any good places around here?"

McCormick stood there a moment, looking grimly defiant about even giving up that much information. Then he pointed vaguely in an easterly direction and said, "Yeah, 'bout a mile or so."

The psychiatrist gave that a nod, and climbed into the driver's seat. Mark, hesitating for only a moment, opened the door on the passenger side and got in as well.

The silence was getting a little thick. Finally McCormick spoke. "I am sorry about rousting you out in the middle of the night last Friday." From the tone it seemed obvious that the regret wasn't entirely about disrupting Westerfield's sleep.

He didn't comment on that, just shrugged and said, "It's what I'm here for."

This got another quiet pause, then a nod of acknowledgment, then a little more silence until Mark said. "Here, the one on the right. There's a lot in the back."

Things got quiet again until they were inside, and seated. Even Westerfield, who had turned waiting people out into an art form, was starting to wonder if all he'd be getting from this would be a spring roll and a plate of chicken lo mein. As for the man across from him, he was studying the menu with a level of attention usually reserved for serious decisions.

There was a period of patient silence that ended with the ordering of food. When it looked like it might settle in again, the psychiatrist finally risked an opening gambit.

"I talked to Paul."

The sudden, sharp stare from the other man, and the look of concern on his face, made Westerfield hastily add, "He thought you might be worried."

"Did he call you?"

Westerfield nodded.

"Is he okay? I mean, why did he call?" Then his face clouded abruptly. "Never mind, dumb question. I know you can't talk about him."

"He _told_ me to tell you he's okay."

"Yeah," Mark said doubtfully, "but is he? You should have seen him." He shook his head. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"Well, he sounded like he was okay on the phone. As for the rest," Westerfield kept his expression completely, _entirely_ non-judgmental, "that's hard for me to say. You haven't really told me what happened. Lieutenant Harper—"

"You talked to _Frank_?"

"Yes," the doc admitted. "He called yesterday. He seemed a little worried about you, as well."

"Hardcase called you too, I'll bet," Mark said thinly. "That whole 'I think I'll just stay home and put my feet up today' routine. I shoulda known. I've been set up."

The doc shrugged lightly. "Maneuvered maybe. Very slightly. Maybe you owe me one for the midnight consultation—how 'bout that?"

McCormick looked as if he was trying to work up some resentment, but the end result barely qualified as sullen. His shoulders finally dropped a notch.

"I don't think I ever told you about that place."

"San Roque?"

"Yeah, and, ah, Roca Triste—the prison there."

Westerfield shook his head. "No."

"Yeah," Mark repeated nervously. "It was five years ago. Happened before I met you."

Nothing else came out for a moment and Westerfield finally said, "Lieutenant Harper called it a dungeon."

Mark nodded.

"You were in it?"

Another nod. "Went down to San Roque. Got in the middle of something I didn't even know I'd gotten in the middle of and, the next thing I knew, I was thrown in there. Didn't know exactly why. Didn't know what was happening. They beat the crap out of me when I tried to ask."

"How long?"

"Oh, only five days. Couldn't tell then, though. No day, no night. Pitch black." Mark frowned. "But not for long. I started hallucinating."

"Sensory deprivation. That's what happens."

"Nothing nice." Mark's tone had gone a bit flat, but still almost matter-of-fact. "All bad stuff. Seemed very real, though."

"Human imagination is a very powerful thing."

"Yeah," McCormick agreed quietly. "Funny thing was, in the middle of all of it, the door to the cell opened and there was Hardcastle."

"He got you out?"

"Ah, _no_. I mean, that's what I thought then but, no, I just heard him say one word, and then he was gone, the door shut. All black again."

"It was real?"

"Yeah . . . and this is the weird part; I thought that part was a hallucination. I tried to convince myself it was, because the alternative was . . ."

"Abandonment?" Westerfield suggested gently after a long moment of silence.

A nod. The silence stretched out.

"But he did get you out."

"Yeah, I think it was about a day later. The door opened again, lots of light that time, guards. I'd pretty much convinced myself I was already dead, and then I realized I wasn't, but they'd just forgotten to do it. I'd thought all kinds of crazy stuff in the time it took them to haul me out of there and upstairs. Hardcastle was there, and Harper. I found out I was being extradited."

"A scam?"

"No, not really. There were outstanding charges, stuff that had never been settled. It was pretty real. And it made perfect sense right then."

"That you deserved it?"

Mark glanced up again, out of what might have been drifting into reverie. "Yeah." His gaze sharpened. "Exactly. And I _thought_ I was thinking clearly. I thought Hardcastle was angry. I figured I was going back to prison, but at least it wasn't going to be Roca Triste." Mark shook his head. "Only five days in the hole, and it reduced me to that."

Westerfield managed a low whistle. "Plenty of post-traumatic stress to go around."

"Is that what it was? Huh." Mark shook his head. "I dunno. But, anyway, it took a while before I got my head straight."

"And the charges were cleared, I presume?"

"Yeah, that helped." McCormick frowned thoughtfully for a moment and then added, "But it wasn't just the charges, the going back to prison. It was _him. _It was me believing that he meant it, which is what I thought at first. I know that was crazy, but that's what I was thinking." He slumped back and sighed slightly. "So, that's what I mean . . . five days. I was pretty messed up."

"And that was where the judge was last week?"

"Yeah." Mark nodded. "Nobody was sure. That was actually the best case scenario; at least it would mean he was still alive."

"So, how did you get him out?"

"Oh . . . we ran a little scam of our own."

"We?"

There was a quick flash of guilt and then McCormick backtracked slightly and said, "'_I_' . . . it was my idea. I dragged Frank into it, and Kathy, too. And, damn, the thing with Paul. I swear, it never even occurred to me—his mom and the casino and all."

"I would imagine it never occurred to Milt, either, that getting you out of prison the way he did might have some negative associations for you."

Mark seemed momentarily startled. Then he fumbled. "Well, yeah, but . . ."

"It was a necessary means to an end. So he did it. And you're okay. Paul's okay, too."

McCormick swallowed once, then said, "We all just got lucky."

"Paul even thinks it might have been a good thing. Who knows, maybe he's right. It doesn't usually help to ignore the bad stuff. It doesn't make it go away."

"Is that why you dragged me to lunch today?"

"Do we have some more bad stuff to talk about? Frank said someone died."

"Before we got there, yeah. In the cell across from Hardcastle's. One of the other advisers." Mark shook his head. "The judge looked pretty bad, too, but at least _he_ still had his head screwed on straight."

"Everybody reacts differently; everyone has different fears."

"I don't think he has any."

"_Different_ fears."

McCormick looked doubtful. "Okay," he finally nodded, still dubious, "maybe. Never seen any."

"And different ways of showing them."

"I'll take your word for it." Mark sighed. "And you're right. All over, everything back to normal. Got out of it by the skin of our teeth and kept the list of felonies to the absolute minimum required."

"So . . .?"

"'So' what?" Mark asked suspiciously.

"Avoidance, a certain degree of unusual pensiveness, and people lining up to tell me you need to be talked to."

"I dunno." The younger man's eyes narrowed a bit—annoyance, but with an element of slight evasiveness. "Maybe it's like I said, we all just got lucky."

Westerfield waited patiently for more.

Another sigh, this one a bit wearier. "Look, I dragged all of them down there with some half-baked idea. I was targeting a mobbed-up casino that was supporting the coup. I'd even tapped a thief named Farnell—a guy Hardcastle had been trying to bust for years—I was going to try and work my way through the security system, clean them out of some serious cash, then hold it for ransom. Kathy came up with a better idea—a little less criminal, faster, too."

"Teamwork." Westerfield smiled. "Though Harper said you were the one calling the shots."

Mark grunted, and then, "Yeah, and I never want to be in the position again. I could have gotten them all killed, or thrown into that hell-hole."

"Sounds like it was an all-volunteer army."

"Well, I don't want to be a general. Tonto is fine for me. I've even coped with 'partner', but I'll be damned if I'll let him push me into being a general."

"Who?"

"Hardcase." Mark frowned. "He started talking about being a judge—_me_ being a judge. Well, actually it was Farnell who was talking about it, which oughta tell you right there what a lousy idea it is, but when Hardcastle heard—you know, he _hates_ this guy—he said I ought to think about it. I don't want to think about it, and I don't want _him_ to think about it, either."

He pulled up short, a little flushed, and looked around nervously as though he wasn't sure just how much volume he'd achieved.

"Anyway," he ducked his head down, his voice lower, tighter, more even, "once he _starts_ thinking about something, it usually doesn't end there, but I'm not giving in on this one."

"Fine."

Mark sat back, looking at him with an expression of surprised relief.

Westerfield shrugged. "You're, what, two years out of law school? Isn't there some sort of minimum requirement to be even considered for a judgeship?"

"Yeah," Mark said, now sounding slightly more suspicious, as though it might be a trick question. "Ten years."

"So, are you going to spend eight years debating a moot question?"

"_He_ will."

The doc gave that one a considering nod and then said, "Yes, you might be right. But even he'll have to realize that you've got the law on your side, at least for a while yet."

"Yeah," Mark muttered.

"And eight years is a long time to get used to an idea."

McCormick looked at him; the suspicion appeared to be deepening.

"Him or me?" he finally asked.

"Well," Westerfield smiled, "where were you eight years ago?"

There was a brief pause for subtraction and then McCormick's face went slightly rigid in recollection.

"San Quentin. I still had two months left."

"And if someone had told you that eight years from then you'd be Milton Hardcastle's law partner—"

"I'd've spat in their face," McCormick said ruefully. He sat, brows knitted. "So, you're saying I might be wrong about this, too? _No_—"

"Not necessarily."

"Good," Mark said, a little less firmly than before, "because I'm _not_." He hesitated briefly and then said, "So, how do I convince him?"

Westerfield shook his head. "I don't think you will, but I wouldn't argue about it with him too much, if I were you. Like I said, eight years is a long time."

"Is that psychiatric advice?"

"No," Westerfield grinned, "more the practical kind. The fewer times you insist you're right, the less embarrassing it is if you finally turn out to be wrong."


	12. Chapter 12

Author's Note: This follows on Chapter 11, which follows 'The Martingale'.

**Sessions—**Chapter 12

Westerfield showed up at the Law Clinic promptly at noon on Friday, too, this time parking around back, in the small lot. Mark had assured him the spot normally reserved for Hardcastle's truck would be empty—he was picking up the donkey and driving him to work and there wasn't going to be any argument about it, either.

He tapped on the back door. There were sounds from the other side, and a casually half-hollered, 'I'll get it.' That was Mark's voice. Then, when the door opened, McCormick, coffee cup in hand and cuffs rolled up, looked over his shoulder and said, to the man further up the hallway, "Your turn."

Hardcastle scowled very briefly, and mostly in the direction of his rather pleased-looking law partner. For Westerfield there was a slightly thin, possibly surprised, smile.

"Wasn't expecting company," he said dryly.

"Everybody's gotta eat," Mark said with a slight chuckle as he turned and eased past him.

The judge pointedly checked his watch. "Might be kinda tight for time today."

"Nonsense," Mark grinned just before he ducked back into the first door on the left, his voice still quite audible, "nothing important on the board this afternoon. And who's in charge here, anyway? Take a break."

The scowl was back, again momentary, but it looked like some tongue-biting was involved before the judge got control over his face again. Another brief smile for the company and then they both heard the parting admonition, 'And don't forget your coat.'

"He's bossy," Hardcastle said, and then gestured to the back door, very definitely leaving his coat behind. Westerfield raised one eyebrow. "I'm _fine_," the older man added, though not loud enough to provoke another set of cautions from the man inside.

In fact, to Westerfield's eye he looked fairly himself, some stiffness to his gait and the faint shadow of a bruise on his right jawline, all subtle, nothing overt. Still, the answer surprised him when he said, "Your pick."

"Is Santa Monica too far?" Hardcastle asked.

"No, that'd be fine. You've got a place in mind?"

"Yeah, north of the pier. Good sandwiches. They've got a veranda."

Westerfield jerked his chin back in the direction of the now-closed back door. "You sure about the coat?"

"I'm _fine_."

00000

The midday traffic wasn't too bad and the veranda sparsely occupied, though it felt like the temperature might just crack seventy with a bit of luck. Hardcastle had requested the outside seating and was taking in the ocean view with an expression of genuine appreciation.

"I never get tired of it," he said. "You might think so, looking out the kitchen window and seeing it every day, but, no, it's always a little different." He took a deep breath.

Westerfield looked out at the winter sun, the long white rollers in the stiffening west breeze. He nodded. "It is beautiful . . . Not too chilly, though?"

This got him a crooked grin. "Not you, too? Listen," the judge lowered his chin and leaned forward a little, "I'm just letting him get away with it for a couple of days because it seems to make him feel better."

"Right, you're fine."

"Well, I _am_. Couple little aches and pains, that's all." There was a quick grin, just as quickly extinguished, replaced by a more sober look. "I'm not saying it was a picnic." His face clouded with a frown. "Mendoza, he was one of the advisers—"

"The man who died?"

Hardcastle nodded. "McCormick told you about that?"

"No, the lieutenant did."

"Frank? You called him?"

"He called me. That must've been the day you got back."

"Hmmph." It was a noncommittal grunt, probably intended to add a grain of salt to anything Harper might've said, without actually acknowledging that there might be anything _to_ deny.

"And Mark, he told me something about the place."

That was obviously going to be a tougher description to get around. McCormick had spent some time on the other side of the cell door.

"Well," Hardcastle said, quietly resigned, "like I said, no picnic." He broke off eye contact and looked down at his menu with a studied air. Then, after a moment of silence, he spoke again, unprompted. "But the kid worries too much."

"Doesn't sound like it this time."

The judge looked up at him, then past him, at the ocean again. "Listen, we talked at first. That helped some. Mendoza, he kept saying he couldn't breathe. The guards came down, told him to be quiet, but that just made him more panicky. I think they probably hit him. Then we all started shouting. I was hoping they'd open the doors, give us a chance to try something but . . . they didn't even bother." He paused, shook his head. "We didn't hear him any more after that. The rest of us stopped talking, too." He frowned, still looking down. "Never been anyplace so dark. No light at all."

"Mark said that, too."

"Yeah, well, he knew what it was like. That's what kept worrying me the whole time. We'd even talked about it, being in prison. Me and him, I mean, the last time we'd been together." The frown settled in. "Christmas. Yeah. Seems like a long time ago."

"Last year," Westerfield said with a hint of a smile.

"Yeah." Hardcastle returned it, then looked thoughtful for a moment and added, "You know, I've been in jail more times than the average retired judge. This made, ah, the fifth . . . _no,_ the sixth."

The doc felt one eyebrow rising. He very conscientiously forced it back down again, but too late.

"Well," Hardcastle's look had gone somewhat chagrined, "I'd done a pretty good job staying out of trouble until I retired." There was another grin. "And, anyway, one of the other times was down in the Caribbean, too, place called San Rio, pretty close to San Roque. Somebody framed me and I got tossed in the clink." He was staring back out at the ocean again. There was a deep breath and a quick swipe of the nose before he continued. "Mark came and got me out. Crazy stunt, used a helicopter."

This time the eyebrow went up and stayed there.

The judge glanced back at him, gave it one sharp nod, and said, "Yeah, _crazy_. And he'd only been staying with me for a couple-maybe three months then. It wasn't like we were buddies. I couldn't figure it out."

Westerfield kept his mouth shut and both eyebrows steadfastly neutral.

"Okay, well, not right away, anyhow."

"You did figure it out eventually?"

Hardcastle shrugged lightly. "Yeah, I think so. What do you call that, projection? You know, when you have a certain feeling about something, and you think it must be the same way for somebody else."

"Projection," Westerfield nodded, "yes."

"Well, that's what it is with McCormick. Prison is one of the few things that scares him, and San Roque, well, as prisons go, they don't get much worse than that one."

"Were _you_ afraid of it?" the doc asked curiously.

"Afraid? Hell, yes, some. Be stupid not to be." Hardcastle frowned. "But, you know what scared me the most?"

Westerfield shook his head just once.

"Well, I kept thinking, 'What the hell crazy stunt is he gonna try this time?' I was worrying that he'd do something that would land him in one of those cells with the rest of us. But that was bad enough, at least I wasn't thinking he'd get Kathy and Paul and Frank involved, Aggie, too—she's the one who helped him that other time, in San Rio; shoulda figured she'd get in on it, huh?" He shook his head. "I dunno how to explain it to him. I'm old, see, I've had a pretty good life. Some ups, some downs, but maybe better than I deserved."

Hardcastle's smile was wholly sincere. "Not that I'd mind hanging around a while longer, to see how things turn out, ya know?"

Westerfield nodded.

"But if I did have to go, well, that wouldn't be some damn tragedy."

"Not for you."

The judge frowned and finally said, "He'd be okay. He's got a life."

"And you're part of it."

"Yeah, well, not indefinitely. He ought to understand that. And I sure as hell don't want to take anybody else down with me."

"I don't think you can control how much other people are concerned about you . . . especially when their concerns seem well-founded."

"Maybe so," he said and took a deep breath, then looked sharply at the other man again. "Did he tell you what he did?"

"Not really. He said it was a half-baked idea."

"Hah. I backed Frank into a corner at Aggie's place, after it was all over. He told me the whole story. Half-baked, huh? McCormick put it together on the fly, wormed his way into the operation over at San Roque's dirtiest casino, used their crooked financial records to nail the local guy at the top, and then got him to put the lid on Ruiz—he was the one running the coup. Then he got arms to what was left of the ousted government, and coordinated with them to spring the president—he was in the cell two down from mine." Hardcastle sat back with a look of mildly aggravated satisfaction. "I gotta say, it was pretty slick."

"Sounds that way."

The judge smiled, then seemed to recollect himself after only a moment and added, "Not that it wasn't also risky as hell."

"It sounds like he did what he could to minimize the risks. At least he worked with some back-up."

"Yeah," the judge shook his head, "he's come a long way from swooping in with a helicopter and getting shot at." Then he frowned again. "Though he mighta showed a little more judgment with the back-up choices."

"Paul's okay."

He saw Hardcastle shoot him a sharp glance and suddenly realized that the lieutenant might not have been quite as forthcoming as the judge thought.

"Frank didn't do too much explaining about that," the judge said slowly. "Something about card counting—which isn't actually illegal, you know, though Paul's not legal to gamble anywhere." He sighed. "Nah, that wasn't who I was talking about. There's this guy, name's Farnell, lives over in San Rio. A thief. We nailed him once, but he got out, fled the country.

"McCormick asked him to help. Said he needed someone on the spot, right away." The judge looked troubled. "Can't trust someone like that—lots of charm but no integrity. The kid doesn't always get that."

"He's not a good judge of character?"

Hardcastle frowned. "No, I didn't mean that. It's just that he tends to see the good in people, if there's any there at all."

"Is that so bad?"

"Well, it is if you let someone like Farnell get a hook in you. And if Mark felt he owed him . . ." He let the thought trail off to a shake of the head.

"What's the worst that could happen?" Westerfield inquired mildly. "Sounds like this guy can't even put in an appearance here."

"Yeah," Hardcastle grimaced. "That's a good thing, too, I suppose. If I did manage to have him hauled back here, the next thing you know, he'd be leaning on McCormick to be his defense attorney."

"Just to annoy you?"

"Hell, no, because Farnell can spot talent when he sees it."

"Aah."

"But, nah, that wouldn't be so much the problem—everybody's entitled to an attorney, even Farnell."

The grimace was stuck in the on position. Westerfield gave him a moment and finally asked, "What _would_ be the problem then?"

Hardcastle's lips had thinned out a little. "Might be that maybe Farnell's thinking he's entitled to more than a lawyer. Maybe he thinks he's entitled to a judge."

"You?"

Hardcastle shot him another quick glance. "Not till hell freezes over . . . Anyway, I'm not a judge."

"_Aah_." Westerfield paused. He wasn't all that good at pretense. He finally said, "Mark mentioned something about that. He seemed to think it was all highly unlikely."

"Well," Hardcastle grumbled, "it will be if he won't even consider the idea."

"And it's not as if it could happen anytime soon."

"Yeah, 'nother eight years, at least. But it wouldn't hurt for him to give it some thought. He said 'no' like I'd suggested he take up snake handling. There's nothing _wrong _with being a judge."

"Not for you," Westerfield agreed. "But it might not be something everyone is comfortable with, especially someone who tends to see the good in people."

"It's not like judges only see the bad in folks."

"No, not that, but sometimes they have to make some tough calls, I imagine, pass sentence on people who aren't all bad, aren't even _much_ bad."

Hardcastle turned his gaze back out on the ocean again, but this time he looked very focused. There was a long pause before he spoke, very certain, very even. "That's the part he understands better than anybody else I know. That's part of why I think he'd be a good judge. But, yeah, I do know it's not always easy. Some of those decisions are damn hard."

"Then you do understand his position—that he's not rejecting you when he says no?"

The older man looked stiffly out to sea for a moment longer, then nodded once, slowly, and finally said, "Yeah, I get that."

"Good," Westerfield said, with a certain amount of finality as he picked up his menu and scanned the choices. "Guess you're going to have to."

"Have to what?"

"Try and stick around to see how it turns out."


End file.
